


Crimson Gold

by sanva



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Continues on through canon, F/M, R plus L equals J, Sansa and Jon are sent back in time, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Starts pre-series, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:32:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9798635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanva/pseuds/sanva
Summary: The bitter taste of failure, death, and destruction led to the casting of a spell. Given a chance, the Old Gods will reshape the future. Soul bonds have always belonged to the Gods of the First Men and the Children.





	1. Crimson and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by myself. Any errors are my own to claim. I'll probably notice and fix some later.
> 
> This was started before season 7, thusly while I use much of show canon (mixing in some book canon) I will pick and choose things from season 7 that fit my needs. Jon = Jaehaerys Targaryen because I refuse to believe Lyanna and Rhaegar would dishonor Elia (and Rhaegar's firstborn son Aegon) by reusing that name so soon. Plus in this AU even with an annulment, Aegon would have remained legitimate and first in line.

The crimson leaves of the Heart Tree rustled in the wind as Sansa blinked her eyes open, squinting up at the sky. Patches of grey clouds peaked between the branches and leaves. She took in a deep breath and winced at the ache pulsing through her body. Coughing, she rolled to her side and attempted to push herself up, but her fingers and arm shook.

Reality rushed back to her and she widened her eyes, casting a frantic look about. She was in the Godswood of Winterfell and it was snowing, little flurries of summer snow flitting about in the air. Some drifted over the pool in the middle of the clearing, hitting the steaming water and melting instantly.

“Jon?” she choked out and then started at the sounds of her own voice. It was hoarse, scratchy, but also higher than her ears were used to. Her fingers clenched in the grass beneath her and Sansa stared down at herself as she managed to push up on her shaky elbows. Her arms, body, _chest_ were all slimmer than she was used to. Sucking in a breath she twisted her head and upper body around, casting about for— “Jon!”

He lay feet away from her, near the foot of the heart tree on his side as if he’d been kneeling to pray when he lost consciousness. His furs, clothes . . .

Sansa sucked in a breath and dragged herself over to him, barely managing to use her feet to push herself along. His form was flecked with melting flakes of pure white snow, large enough to see with the naked eye. “Jon,” she breathed as she reached him, pressing a hand to his shoulder to roll him, pull him towards her.

His hair was short, shorter than even after the red witch resurrected him, curls brushing just below his ears and over his forehead. With a shaky hand, she brushed one tendril away from the pale, unscarred forehead. He was so _young_. Worry coursed through her suddenly and pressed her hand against his cheek, relishing the warmth even as she patted gently. “Jon!” A light peach fuzz, patches of stubble pricked her palm. “Jon!”

Jon’s eyes shot open and he gasped, jerking, as he stared up at her. His dark grey, wine flecked eyes—once she’d realized dark violet hid within the grey she could never unsee it—stared up at her, widening. “Sa—San—Sansa,” his voice came out harsh, rough, but lacking the deep, rough quality he gained with age. His brow furrowed and he tried and failed to lift his right hand.

“Give it a moment, love,” she murmured, lips quirking slightly. “It worked.” Her hand pressed against his skin, over his heart. She could feel a sting in the skin over her own. “Gods _it worked_.”

Jon took a shuddering breath and finally forced his hand, still shaking, up enough to cover hers. “Did it? Are you sure?”

She wet her lips and pressed up a bit more, settling in a half-seated position and carefully untied his jerkin down to his mid chest with shaking fingers. Then she pushed it and the tunic beneath aside, baring the pale skin of his chest and his left pectoral to the cool air. 

_Sansa Stark_ stared back at her, a perfect match to the Old God's script, silver lines traced across skin with dark shining red, red as the crimson leaves and sap of the Heart Tree, outlining it.

A gasp left her throat as she touched it, fingers pressing against his warm skin. “It’s there,” Sansa confirmed and then bit her lip. She sat back and fumbled pulling the front of her dress down as far as she could, having to untie bits of it with shaking fingers. It took long enough that Jon was able to help her, until they bared her smallclothes and then her left breast to the cool air. 

_Jaehaerys Targaryen_ stared back at him and he reached out to touch it with quaking fingers. 

“Gods,” Jon breathed, relief flooded through his body. “It worked . . . soulmates. We’re soulmates.”

“We are,” Sansa nodded and covered his hand with her own, pressing his warmth into her breast. “ _We are_.”

They hadn’t been before—before they came back. They’d married before the Old Gods, though, cutting their hands, pressing their cuts together, the sap of the Heart Tree drizzled upon their joined hands. Their marks had been gold before, a sign of two people, willing and in love—mind, body, soul—with one another. Joined for the rest of eternity. Their souls marked, destined to long for one another for the rest of their days.

Jon’s brow furrowed and he drew his hand back. “How . . . this is before. Before the King came.” His eyes darkened, turning near black. “ _Joffrey_ ,” he spat. “He—None of them will touch you.”

Sansa’s hands framed his face and she pulled him to her, resting their foreheads against each other. They were sitting face to face, legs curled to the left, both of them. Dirt stained both their clothes, but especially the front of her pale green wool dress. 

She pressed her lips to his and Jon responded instantly. The kiss was sweet, but passionate, switching quickly from soft, chapped lips pressed tight to slick tongues teasing each other. Pulling back, she ran her thumb gently across his cheek. “The God's willed it.”

“But you,” he paused, the skin of his cheeks flushing slightly, “your first—first blood . . . didn’t happen until after . . .”

Sansa cut him off with another kiss and then pulled back, dropping one hand to press against her lower stomach. She could feel the ache, the curling pulse of pain drifting from her front in tendrils to her lower back. The dampness about her and her smallclothes. It was familiar and much too soon. They had prepared themselves for this. They had planned for two scenarios, Bran hadn’t been sure which would be the result of the spell they wove, but the paths he had seen only went two ways. Either they would arrive separately, Jon in the North, Sansa in King’s Landing, the day she first bled, or they would arrive the first time she bled—days after her arrival in Castle Black to her relief—after meeting him again.

They wouldn’t arrive earlier, they had assumed, for they were using the magic of the marks as an anchor and marks never appeared before a woman’s first blood. That was why betrothals existed; they gave the woman the right to wait until her mark either came or didn’t before finalizing a marriage. It was an old tradition from the days when the First Men roamed Westeros alongside the Children. Men weren’t quite so lucky, but the laws of the North, at least, gave a couple the right to annul a marriage should the man gain a mark. In such a situation, the woman was afforded the right to re-marry as if a maid and any children they had together remained in the line of inheritance of their father’s house.

“The God’s willed it,” she repeated softly.

Jon’s eyes were staring at her hand, pressed against Sansa’s stomach and he swallowed thickly. Their plans were dust now, they would have to come up with new ones. New ones that would take into account the inevitable problems his name would cause.

“What now,” he murmured, more to himself than anything as his mind searched for the details they would need to deal with in this new scenario.

“Now,” Sansa breathed, pulling back to stare at him with crystal blue eyes. Memories flashed before her mind, before his mind, memories of her father’s head rolling from his shoulders, images painted from the words of others of Grey Wind’s head upon Robb’s shoulders, of Lady Catelyn’s neck cut to the bone, of Rickon’s heart pierced by an arrow . . . of their child stolen from them by the poison that weakened Sansa to the point that—along with two fallen dragon’s, the loss of Daenerys, the final dragon stolen by Euron, and the army of dead marching to the Neck and sieging Winterfell—they had given up. Sansa nearly died and had remained nearly unable to leave her bed. It had all led to the moment they had weaved the spell that brought them here. She lifted her chin and grinned wildly. “Now we kill them all.”

 

 

Twelve and fifteen, that was how old they were, they realized later. Sansa felt so young, so small. Jon was over a head taller than her, their age difference being much more obvious now than it had been when they first came together in the future.

They had to plan things out, knowing the approximate timeline of things; she had carefully hidden the fact that she bled from the servants and her mother. Jon burned her small clothes in his hearth; the dress luckily had but a tiny spot of blood that Sansa had easily cleaned away. It had taken some doing, but they managed to keep it hidden, once, twice, thrice and then once they were sure, Sansa let the blood stain her sheets and cried for her mother.

Jon, who had avoided losing his shirt for several months in the training ring and about the other lads, for his part made his way to Lord Stark’s solar that same morning.

“Father,” Jon said, lips pressed together and brow furrowed in a mess of confusion, “I—I need to speak with you.”

Ned tilted his head, brow furrowing as well when he surveyed Jon, his eyes catching on Jon’s hand where it pressed against his left breast. “Come in, Jon,” he said, stepping back to allow Jon in.

Dropping his gaze, Jon’s hands shook as he untied his tunic, more nervous of the lies about to drip from his tongue than of the situation itself. “I—I have a soul mark,” he managed, fingers fiddling with the edge of his collar and dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Gods, Jon,” Ned breathed stepping around him. “It has been . . . three generations since House Stark was honored by a mark.” By a soul reborn. There might have been others, but marks only came to those that bonded eternally with another and, as the theory went, only if both souls were born and lived to maturation.

Jon bit his lip and nodded, clenched his fingers into fists, then released them. He sucked in a breath and then pulled his shirt aside, eyes still locked on the floor.

He heard the sharp intake of breath, the stuttered step closer, and then the weight of a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“How?” Jon asked, voice but a whisper. To the world, Jon and Sansa shared a father. Soulmates were _never_ siblings. The Gods had always rejected giving the bond when siblings or even half-siblings tried. The sap of the Heart Tree turned black. It was one reason why so many left the North when Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon Targaryen, leaving for Essos to from the Company of Roses. He lifted his gaze to meet Ned’s.

“I—your—” Ned stopped. He took a deep breath and then released it; his eyes shutting for a one long moment. “You’re not my son,” he admitted finally as he opened his eyes. 

“Whose then?” The question slipped from Jon’s lips.

“My sister Lyanna,” Ned told him, hand squeezing Jon’s shoulder gently. “She was your mother.” His jaw clenched for a moment. “Rhaegar . . . Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was your father. They—He was her soulmate.”

Jon’s eyes widened with genuine shock. That was a detail they had never learned, not even Bran had known of it. Bran had seen so little of the past, precious little, his control not nearly as good as perhaps it should have been. “You said . . . you said its been generations!”

Ned looked away for a moment, sighing. “No one knows but I and one other . . . and now you.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Jon asked when Ned finally looked back at him again. “Tell me that I am not your son?”

“Aye,” Ned nodded, “when you were older . . . married or settled into whatever life you chose.”

Jon glanced away. “What do . . . my mark . . . Sansa. I don’t want to hide it. Is there . . . what do we do?”

“We’ll,” Ned breathed out, “it won’t be easy, but I could claim you to be Brandon’s.”

“He died near a year before my birth,” Jon bit his lip, “did he not?”

“Yes, bu—”

“Ned—” Lady Stark cut herself, and Ned, off after pushing into the room. As soon as she entered she froze in the doorway. Sansa stood behind her with a dress pulled hastily on, hair in a simple braid. Lady Stark’s eyes locked on Jon as the words fled her, her usual look of disdain, anger shifted and her eyes widened.

Jon had turned to the door, shirt still pulled open, revealing the mark on his chest. He met Sansa’s eyes and she played the moment well, gasping in shock, jaw dropping open.

Lady Stark strode forward, past Jon, straight to her husband and slapped him across the face once, twice, and then he grabbed her hand.

“Jon?” Sansa asked, voice tentative as she slipped into the room, shutting the door idly, eyes locked on her name on his chest, one hand fluttering out as if to touch before pulling back. She rung her hands together and raised her eyes to meet his.

“Sansa,” he murmured as they tried to ignore the hushed, angry voices from where her mother had dragged her father to the other side of the solar.

“You bear my name,” she said, voice quiet and filled with enough confusion and awe it was quite befitting the young, dream filled girl she once was.

“I do,” he confirmed, letting his eyes drift to her left breast.

She bit her lip. “Mine . . . mine says _Jaehaerys—Jaehaerys Targaryen_.”

“I,” he paused, sucking in a breath. He glanced over his shoulder to where Lady Catelyn was still conversing with Ned in the same angry tone. “Father . . . Unc—Lord Stark says my mother was . . . my mother was your Aunt Lyanna. I guess . . . I guess Jaehaerys must be the name she gave me.”

There was a momentary lull in their conversation and he itched to touch her, and she him, as they listened to the words shared between the other couple in the room. This moment was key to their plans. They needed the support of Lady Stark alongside Lord Stark. If one or neither chose to support their union . . . the road they traveled would be drastically more difficult.

It was a long moment before either of them spoke again. 

“Should I call you Jaehaerys then?” Sansa finally asked, voice tentative as she reached out, this time letting her fingers brush her name on his chest.

“I think,” he slowly reached up, tentatively seeming he hoped, and took her hand, tangling their fingers together and ducking his head, “I prefer Jon.”

“Good,” she said after a moment, tilting her head to look up at him, “so do I.” 

Sansa smiled and him and he smiled back, both of them stepping slightly closer to them, letting the draw of their bond pull them closer on instinct as they tried to listen in and yet ignore the argument burning nearby.

They stood there, waiting, hands held tight together, until her mother, still fuming, walked back towards them and looked at Jon, blue eyes dark and unreadable.

“I didn’t know,” she said shortly, eyes locking on their joined hands. “I never knew.”

Jon glanced at Ned and then back to her; Sansa squeezed his hand gently. “I know. I didn’t either.”

Lady Catelyn shot a glance at Ned before looking at the two of them. “I will not lie and say this will be easy for me to accept.” The South didn’t place much stock in soulmates, rare as they were. Her thoughts on the Old Gods were terse, disbelieving, and Jon knew she’d never witnessed a bonding in this life. In the last it was rumored the first she saw was Robb’s. As the story had went his attempt to bond with Jeyne Westerling after he’d already married her before the Seven had failed. The crimson red of the Heart Tree sap turning black as tar at the mixing of their blood. “But I will not stand against it.” She reached out and grasped Jon’s chin, nails biting against his skin as she forced him to meet her eyes. “You will be accompanied at all times until she is of age. There will be no _bedding_ until the mark bleeds gold and you will not betray her.”

“Never,” Jon spoke, voice coming out in a rush, “I will never seek to be with anyone but her, not now,” Sansa tightened her grip on his hand again, “I will _never_ dishonor her. I promise.”

Her eyes dropped to their hands again and she pursed her lips. “Sansa,” she said, voice harsh, “we still have much to go over this morning. Come.” 

The door was practically slammed open as Lady Catelyn stormed out, her skirts rustling about her feet.

Sansa watched her for a moment before darting her eyes back to Jon. She bit her lip and lifted onto her tip toes to press a kiss to Jon’s cheek before their fingers untangled and she hurried after her mother. 

Jon watched after her for a long moment, painting a smile upon his lips he hoped was sick with love. He only averted his gaze when Ned shut the door to the solar and turned towards him again.

“Jaehaerys,” Ned murmured with a sigh as he looked at Jon, “that the Gods went with the name your mother gave you . . . complicates things.”

“What do we do?” Jon asked, true worry creasing his features.

“Now,” Ned glanced over Jon’s shoulder, eyes lost in thought, “now we must prepare for the inevitable.”

Jon quashed the smile that wanted to burst its way across his face. The first tendrils of the plan he had Sansa had formed and seeded were taking shape. House Stark would rise and their enemies would burn.

Burn with the freezing cold bite of winter.


	2. Grey and White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is closer to the timeline of the show, but still tweaked. This is somewhere around a year and a half after the last chapter.
> 
> I'm sick today (my voice is gone which means I can't work) and parts of this had been sitting about begging to be fleshed out so instead of working on the Dorne interlude for VB I did this.
> 
> I think I have too many time travel fics.

Wheat, barley, and small patches of other crops lined the dirt road, green shoots waving slightly in the breeze. Small folk wandered the fields here and there, pulling up the worst of the weeds and checking the health of the plants. The ground here was the best in the area, better even then the fields near Moat Cailin. The swamp creeped up from the south in places, but they were at least a half hour ride from the castle here. Had it not rained the evening before the ground would be as dry as the fields around Winterfell. As it was the ground was damp enough for the horses hooves to leave clear imprints, but not enough to be true mud.

"My lord," a man with greying hair, a scruffy beard, and pants covered in dirt past the knees called as he shuffled out of a field of beets that were beginning to be harvested.

Jon halted his horse, his guards following suit. "Jarett," he said, letting a small, close mouthed smile break his solemn mask, "how goes the harvest?"

"Well, my lord," Jarett, inclined his head as he made his way to his own horse. It was a shaggy, mountain bred horse. The man had joined Jon's household upon the announcement of his betrothal to Sansa, traveling south from the mountain clans alongside a few others and a dozen work horses. He was a distant cousin through Jon's great grandmother's family. He was a true boon, gifted with eking high yields of crops from the earth. "The first crop of onions will be ready for harvest next week. Another month, should weather hold, we may be able to harvest the wheat."

"Have you enough hands to complete the harvest?" Jon asked as the man mounted his steed.

"Aye," Jarett nodded, "we should." As he settled into the saddle he began a report of the status of the various fields.

Listening to him wasn't difficult, though to some it might be. The cadence of Jarett's voice, the thick accent might have caused some issue, but Jon was used to worse. The thick accents of the Free Folk and eventually the Dothraki and Unsullied he once fought beside in the life before. As the man spoke Jon kept his eyes wandering the fields, taking in the look of both the crops and, more importantly, the health of the people tending them.

It scared him, a bit, how easily he'd folded into this new life. Becoming Lord of Moat Cailin had not been something either he or Sansa had considered, but in truth it worked in their favor. The story that had been weaved to the lords of the north upon the announcement of the bond he and Sansa shared had led to a new lie being told. There had been no way around it. With Robert Baratheon still on the Iron Throne, Jon couldn't bear his birth name. It was their luck that the burden of proof lay with the man as no one would force a high born lady, especially one just flowered, to bare their breast outside of her family and maester.

Brandon's son, the whispers now said. The son of the wild wolf. The son of the elder brother . . . even if he was a bastard as they still proclaimed it gave him some right, however small, to Winterfell. To combat this, and in order to guard against the south should the truth come out, Jon had been gifted Moat Cailin to rebuild and reinforce. Upon his arrival near eight months ago now, Jon had been working to not only rebuild Moat Cailin, but also build an infrastructure to support his people and prepare for the coming of Winter.

He exchanged ravens often with Sansa on the subject, his bonded doing her part, what she could from Winterfell, arranging deals and beginning to engage in politics to the best of her ability. Their ages were a hindrance they were still attempting to get over. They had assumed, wrongly, that they would arrive in their past at least a couple years later than they had. They had been prepared for so much that would no longer come to pass.

The thought of his soulmate, far away, but safe in Winterfell, pained him. They hadn't seen each other since the week following their betrothal feast, when Jon had set out for Moat Cailin to prepare their new holdfast. Soon, though, they would be together again.

He turned his attention back to Jarett as the man pointed towards the hills where the orchards were beginning to grow, explaining the time it would take for them to grow to the point of yielding crops.

"And the glass gardens?" Jon asked, voice cutting through talk of the orchards in the distance. The ground was slowly being cleared to make room for varieties of apples, peaches, plums, pears, and apricots. Along with a few others that did well in late autumn weather and in the less harsh chills of winter.

Jarett glanced over to him. "The shipment of glass should arrive in another moon. Wagons are being prepared to transport it from the White Knife. We considered using a dock along the Bite," he sighed, "but reports claim them to be too degraded."

"Can it be repaired?" He knew the place Jarett referred to, but had never seen it. Small fishing boats could land without issue, perhaps even dock, but transporting glass was difficult without rotting planks and uneven ground to contend with.

"Not in the time the merchants would be willing to wait."

Jon nodded, looking ahead as they passed through the newly built town that had popped up seemingly overnight. Most of the buildings were quite basic, one room affairs. The brothel had arrived first, a two story affair that towered over the rest of the buildings, followed swiftly by a tavern and inn. A few houses were under construction and several stores, including a cobbler had made semi-permanent establishments. He hoped they would be able to attract a permanent smithy soon, they were currently being loaned several from other houses to handle the metal work during the rebuild. They would need a blacksmith adept, one that could utilize the knowledge he and Sansa had carried with them into the past. At times he wished that others could have traversed time with them. Gendry and his hard earned skills, honed at the feet of masters in King's Landing would have been a boon to have. He'd aided in the construction of the weaponry that had, nearly, saved them all. But even the best weapons meant nothing if they were created too late.

"My lord?"

He glanced over at his guard. They had slowed down as they came to a crossroads in the dirt path. One way would lead west to the small fishing village that was also slowly expanding along Fever River and the other route led south to Moat Cailin. At least twice a week, following his rounds in the fields, he would traverse the road to the river to visit the people that lived there. The people there were good and provided an important service, sending near daily shipments of fresh fish to feed the workers and his household.

"Not today," Jon said and shook his head. He glanced up at the sky where the sun was high. "Thank you Jarett."

The man inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Shall I return to my duty, my lord?"

"Make sure to make some time for yourself, Jarett," Jon said with a nod. The man had a family, a wife who worked in the kitchens at the Moat and two young sons. "Your wife should know your face."

Jarett let out a chuckle and Jon could see his closest guard smile. "There will be time enough for her to be sick of me after this harvest, my lord. When winter comes she'll see little else, I'm sure."

They parted ways, Jon wishing those words were the truth of things. He watched for a moment as Jarett turned his horse back the way they'd come, heading back to supervise the beet harvest.

It didn't take long for Moat Cailin to appear in the distance; the ongoing construction visible even from far away. Even now only three towers remained of the original twenty, but those three had been nearly completely repaired. The innards of one redone top to bottom and the other two past the midway point. Shells of buildings, wooden for now, had been constructed as well, tying the three together. A temporary wall had been build up around the perimeter, just eight or so feet tall, that would eventually be replaced with stone. One side, the wall facing south, was already in progress. Piles of basalt blocks were being salvaged from the remnants of the other towers to form the walls. It would be years, generations, perhaps, before Moat Cailin would be anything like it was when the Marsh Kings, the Red Kings, and the Kings of Winter used it to repel southern invaders, but the castle Jon had planned with Winterfell's master builders would hold against all but the most extreme enemies.

It would have to, because two northern children couldn't stop the storm brewing in the south.

 

 

 

 _I miss Arya,_ Sansa thought as she carefully slipped a pale grey thread through the eye of her needle. In another life that thought would have been laughable, had she truly been but a thirteen year old girl. She wasn't just a thirteen year old girl, she was near a decade past that, thrice married, a Queen of Winter. Here though, she was a child who'd until recently been drifting through life squealing over day dreams, twittering silly songs, and gushing over the thought of golden haired princes coming to sweep her away from the cold and dreary north to the bright and colorful, extravagant castles of the south. Life wasn't a song and her prince had neither a love of excess nor golden hair.

"I don't want to!" 

Her sister's exclamation brought her head up as Septa Mordane dragged Arya through the door. The younger girl wore an expression somewhere between a pout, annoyance, and the death glare Sansa had seen too often in all its perfected glory.

"Your sister will be married soon and it is tradition for family—"

"It's fine, septa," Sansa spoke up her voice soft but a calm authoritative tone dripped from it. She hid it ever so slightly beneath a veneer of boredom. "Arya doesn't have to help if she doesn't want to."

"She'd probably ruin it anyway," Jeyne murmured to her left where she was helping embroider a pattern on one of the sleeves.

Sansa shot her a quick, dark look, before pasting a smile on her face and glancing back to where Arya was attempting to force the septa's fingers off her arm. "I'm sure Arya would be quite a help if she wanted to. Our sigil is her best work,"  _When it comes to needlework that doesn't involve a sword,_ "after all." Sansa chewed on her lip for a moment, glancing to the pile of fabric on her left. "Arya," she said after a moment as her sister finally managed to get out of the septa's grip, "I know needlework isn't something you enjoy, but . . . perhaps you might take some time to help me with Jon's tunic?"

Her sister froze before she could leave the room and glanced back at her skeptically.

"Mother and Jon aren't close, so I've mostly been working on it myself," Sansa continued, "and I could use some assistance . . . I meant what I said. You do embroider our sigil quite wonderfully."

Jeyne and the other girls stared at her, but Sansa ignored them. It had been a game, a horrible game, when they were children to lift one another up by tearing Arya down and she wouldn't stand for it. Her sister may never be a seamstress or a southern lady, but she would be a warrior. Her true potential may lay with a larger needle, but she hadn't been horrible at it. Arya had been younger, years behind simply due to their birth order. Sansa hated that she had once lauded skill that looking back was, at least in part, honed over hours of practice. 

Reluctance may have still been written plain as day on Arya's entire being, but using Jon was one way to ensure her sister would at least consider something. Arya, arguably, missed Jon more than anyone else since he had left for the Moat. She had become even more of a terror than Sansa remembered from their last life. Her energy level and attitude seemingly exploded near overnight. Sansa hadn't remembered how much time Jon had spent with their younger siblings—his cousins in truth—but it had turned out to be quite a lot.

"Let me know if you need any help," Sansa smiled a true, honest smile at Arya and gained a wide eyed look and a clenched jaw in return. No longer would she make fun of her sister's abilities. Not even this sister, who had yet to become the finely honed blade she could be.  _By the Gods I wish she could have come, too._

Had Arya Stark traversed time with them, so many more paths would have been opened to them. For now, Sansa was limited to the few connections she had. It would take time, perhaps too much time, for her to build the network she'd need to combat the chaos brewing in the South.

 

 

"It isn't really appropriate." Catelyn was holding the half finished tunic Sansa had set aside earlier to work more on her own dress.

Frowning she glanced up at her mother's face. "What do you mean?" she ventured, glancing back to the dark grey, near black, fabric. The little direwolf sigils in a lighter grey that Arya had been working on earlier that morning barely stood out against the darker color, shining only when struck solidly with good light. Sansa suspected it was a self conscious choice on Arya's to avoid allowing any mistakes to be easily seen, but it worked well for Sansa's plans.

Her mother pursed her lips and sighed, placing the fabric back down to look over the rest. Everything was approximately sized, with room to grow, based on Jon's measurements from near a year ago. It would have to be tailored to fit him in the days before their wedding, but that was something Sansa was prepared for. Her dress was easier to size, as she had been sowing her own dresses since she was a child. She was proud, especially, of this dress. It was better in quality and design than her last wedding dress. When she and Jon had married in their last life it had been quite hastily put together. The fabric had been a gift from Lady Manderly and the only embroidering Sansa had time for had been a direwolf on the chest and flowers about the collar and the wrists. 

"The colors," Catelyn said softly before shaking her head.

"Dark grey with lighter direwolfs . . . I'll embroider the white ones myself," Sansa said, setting aside her dress carefully. Standing she made her way over to smooth the wrinkles out of the thick fabric her husband would soon wear. "Reversed colors to denote Jon's . . . status," she glanced up at her mother. "We can't rightly use any other,"  _red and black would be too obvious_ , "at least until we've married and he takes my name. Once we're settled discussion can be had over the future of our House's colors and name."  _Stark. We'll always be Starks._

"The Starks of Moat Cailin."

"Father!" Sansa smiled at her father where he stood watching them in the doorway. He was smiling, but it wasn't his usual expression.

"Ned?"

"The guard brought back a deserter from the Watch," the words her father spoke sent a chill up her spine, no matter that she knew this would happen any day now, "Theon is arranging the horses." He paused for a long moment and Sansa could feel her mother's knowing shift. "Bran will be joining us."

"Ned!" Catelyn exclaimed stepping forward.

"I wish to go," Sansa surprised herself a bit as the words tumbled from her lips. Whatever protests her mother had been preparing regarding Bran fled as they both turned to stare at her. Before either could speak she lifted her chin and continued, "I will be the Lady of a House in mere months. If my husband goes to war then I will be in charge of ensuring justice is properly served."

"Sansa," her mother started.

"Our way is the old way," Sansa interrupted her. "I wish. I need to do this, Mother. I may not swing the sword, but I will watch it done." She tried to convey through her voice and eyes just how much she needed this. This would be a catalyst to further help her shed the immature Sansa that was still at the forefront of her parents, her siblings, and the rest of the North's eyes. While Sansa couldn't be the Queen she was, she would need to grow quickly into a Lady. Showing how capable she was in increments, hiding her true abilities, was the hardest thing she'd ever done. _It's a good thing Jon is away, he still lacks the ability to lie convincingly. At least he was getting better with half truths._

 

 

 

Neither her mother nor her father had been happy to let her go, but she had insisted and, eventually, they had acquiesced to her request. Her horse had been saddled quickly and she had mounted wearing a soft grey dress she had practiced on prior to beginning work on her wedding gown. Her brothers had been surprised to see her, Robb especially so, and Theon? He was one of the few people Sansa had no issue with exercising years of hard won wit against. His comments were too easy, crude and stinking of self infatuation. He was nothing compared to dozens of others she'd faced over the years.

She stood tall, eyes staring hard as they listened to the deserter tout his claims—ones that she, at least, knew to be all too true—barely flinching as Ice sliced through the air and separated head from shoulder. It had, for but a moment, sent her back to the steps of the Great Sept as she watched Ser Illyn Payne raise it high. Never would her family's sword end up in the hands of their enemies she promised herself. It would not be used to take her father's head, not in this life. 

Robb stood next to her, Bran in front of him, and his hand clenched gently on her shoulder when the sword arced.

"Sansa?" he asked softly after, as she stared hard at the body.

"We should burn the body," she said. 

"What?" Her eyes darted up to meet his, a perfect blue mirror of her own. Confusion shaped his brow and wrinkled his nose.

Sansa blinked and pressed her lips together. "If the White Walkers are back, as he claims, then we should burn the body." He continued to stare so she continued, "Only fire can kill the dead." She raised an eyebrow and then sighed. "Did you not listen to Old Nan's stories?"

Robb stared at her for another moment before speaking, "Old Nan's stories are just that, Sansa, and he was a mad man scared of wildlings and shadows."

"Perhaps," she said softly, staring back to the body, "but what . . . what if he wasn't?"

"Then there's still a seven hundred foot wall between us and them," Rob said as they turned to go, "and you'll be even further south soon and near a port. Plenty of warning to scapper off to Essos should the dead come knocking." He said the last with a quirked grin.

Sansa rolled her eyes, forcing a slight smile on her lips as they reached the horses. It was strange. Knowing the man was telling the truth and knowing the fear he held was real, but also knowing that no one believed him. It was an odd feeling. His death did bother her so much though, he was an oath breaker. The man hadn't even seen fit to warn his brothers of the threat before fleeing south. Sansa had seen dozens of men die, executions, poisonings, and had even lost a child to the latter. She was used to death, but still . . . A hand pressed softly to the belt she wore over her lower stomach, a dagger she had insisted on that Jon had gifted her dangling at her hip. She had lost a child that had been too young to live outside her body and had died before even having a chance, but she . . . they had still lost it. That wouldn't happen this time. They would be careful, Jon was already shaping a loyal household with her assistance. Peter Baelish's men wouldn't be around to aid Cersei's assassin. They wouldn't give the Lannisters reason to attack them, not if they could help it, before their heir was born. The North didn't need a war to deplete their resources.

The need for an heir was something that they had argued about. Jon was afraid that, should she bear issue at a young age, she would be lost to the birth as his own mother was. It had been difficult enough to assuage his fears when she'd been one and twenty and the child had been a happy accident, moon tea having been forgotten in the midst of war. Now they would marry just after her name day, at four and ten. It was an early marriage, yes, but it was a bonding. They were technically already married in the eyes of the North, the ceremony and hand fasting would simply solidify that joining. And with that ceremony the mark would show its truth and bleed red. Most of the North already considered it a cruel practice to have separated them for so long, but Jon was practically a man grown and while she had flowered over a year ago, she had still been a child in body in most ways.

The excuse of preparing Moat Cailin had been a perfect compromise in her mother's eyes. It was still hard, even knowing the truth of Jon's parentage, for her to accept his new position in Sansa's life and in the eyes of the North. Having him now be viewed as her uncle Brandon's bastard was still difficult for her mother to accept, though most of the North seemed to have an easier time believing that then they ever had accepting Ned as his father. Robb swore to her he'd seen a couple lords exchanging coin over the news.

There was a chill in the air as they rode back. She had pushed her horse harder than usual, keeping to the front of the group near Robb and Theon. They weren't racing, technically, but they were acting like  _boys_. Her insides knotted as she rode, eyes darting ahead and to the side of the path, looking for any sign of the stag or direwolf she knew to be out there somewhere.

The stag was, just as Jon had told her, in the middle of the road. The carcass was fresh, the flies hadn't found it yet. As the men spoke she stared at the broken antler, remembering the portent they had once discuss in Jon's solar, she and Bran and Arya, when Jon had gone south to treat with his Aunt. Who when they were children would ever have believed that the dragons would be their fiercest ally and the stags their enemy?

When Robb and the others moved to track the beast that had slain the stag, Sansa dismounted herself, wishing to follow.

"Stay here, Sansa," her father's voice stilled her and she clenched her jaw. She waited a minute or so before lifting her skirts and, to the protest of the guards that remained with her, hurried after them. Their protests and footsteps followed her, but she knew, approximately, where the mother wolf would be. Jon had shown her.

She arrived just as Theon was lifting his dagger as if to plunge it into the wolf pup, Summer if she guessed right, that he held. 

"Gods they're adorable!" She called, eyes bright and face open. Her voice stilled them and they all stared up at her as she made her way down the short incline to the body.

"They aren't pets," Robb told her.

"They're direwolves, aren't they?" Sansa asked as she reached Theon and took the pup from him. His eyes were barely open.

"Aye, they are," her father said and she followed her gaze down to the pups still nestled against their mother's dead body. She handed the pup in her hands to Bran and dropped to her knees, ignoring her father's protest of "Sansa!" as she checked each of the four pups.

"Three males and two females." Her eyes lifted and darted about the area. "Can we keep them?"

Robb knelt next to her then, checking for himself the truth of her words.

"Please?" Bran slipped in quickly, hugging Summer to his chest. The pup whined softly and burrowed against the fur lining of his cloak. 

"She's right," Robb said, glancing up at their father. "Three boys and two girls."

"An ill portent," Theon muttered, perhaps reiterating words that had been previously said.

"Please, father?" Sansa asked as she lifted the pup she knew to be Lady and held her snuggly against her chest.

He sighed and after a long moment nodded. "You'll feed them yourselves, train them yourselves, and clean up after them yourselves." He paused for a moment, eyes darting to Sansa before he set his jaw, "and should the worst occur you will bury them yourselves."

As Robb handed a pup to Theon and lifted the other two himself Sansa stood and carefully made her way to the other side of the dead mother, looking.

"Sansa?" Robb called over to her just as she saw the tuft of white fur.

She smiled, adjusted Lady, and knelt to carefully pick up Ghost from where he lay, nestling him in her arms until he was secure, his white fur touching Lady's grey. "Six pups," Sansa said as she stood and turned. They were a handful and she was already glad that Robb was moving to aid her. 

"A runt," Theon scoffed.

Ignoring him, she smiled down at the pup that had in another life guarded her faithfully when his master couldn't be at her side. "One for each of us."

As much as Sansa hated being parted from Lady, Ghost was colder from having been off on his own and she wanted to ensure that he would survive the trip. She handed Lady off to Robb and kept Ghost against her, wrapping her cloak about him to keep him warm. Runt though he was now, one day he would become larger than the female wolf that was his mother. Larger than Nymeria had grown to be. Jon wouldn't be here for him for another moon at least, until then she would ensure that both Ghost and Lady thrived.

 

 

 

Most days Jon relished the relative quiet of the first meal of the day; he broke his fast alone, usually, either snagging something from the kitchens or his steward would bring him something if he was needed early in the day. He spent his midday meal and dinner socializing with his men and the small folk working about the castle, sharing the same meal and doing so in the eyes of his people. It allowed him a moment to himself before the demands of his holdfast and title began to whittle away at his time.

It was in these silences that he most missed Sansa's presence at his side. When they had both been in Winterfell, hell from the moment they reunited at Castle Black they had shared near every meal. His heart ached at being so far from her. It was worse than it had been before, now that they were fully soul bonded, yet he knew that once the mark bled gold it would be even harder to be apart. There was a reason even southerners loathed separating bonded soulmates. It was a tactic those whose Houses aimed to keep them apart oft used to remain together, to ignore a crimson gold mark was to seek ill luck and ill health.

He pressed a hand against his breast, wishing that he could lessen the ache that was growing more noticeable as time wore on. Soon, he knew, soon he would be riding back to Winterfell.

The door opened without a creak, but Jon heard the footsteps and looked up. His castellan, Willhem Rillwood, stood in the doorway and bowed slightly, "My lord, riders approach from the south."

"Riders?" Jon frowned, had they just been small folk or merchants they wouldn't have deserved mention. He set his cup down and pushed himself up, moving to gather the remainder of his clothes and boots. He was mostly dressed, but if a Lord or Lady were riding through . . . he would have to be fully presentable. "What banners do they ride under?"

"House Bolton and I believe House Redfort," Willhelm told him. "Though I will admit to being less knowledgeable regarding southern houses."

"Which banners?" Jon asked as he secured his tunic.

"The flayed man and a red castle on a white field."

"You're right," Jon nodded at him as he leaned to pull on his boots and secure them. "House Bolton and House Redfort." He chewed the inside of his cheek in thought as he got ready, thoughts tumbling in his mind. When had . . . Domeric Bolton. Jon had met him a few times when they were young, children really. The most memorable time had been the Harvest feast following Bran's birth. He had forgotten that Roose Bolton's trueborn heir was still alive. "Ready the guest rooms," he said as he stood and gathered his cloak.

"My lord?"

"The nearest hold to the south is either difficult to find or over several days ride away," he said as he secured his sword belt. As he adjusted the pommel the familiar ache of missing something pained him. Sansa had asked Mikken to craft the pommel of this sword into a direwolf's head, and it was similar to that of the one Jeor Mormont had placed on Longclaw, but it wasn't the sword that had served him so well for so long. This sword was the finest castle forged steel in the north, but it was still just steel. "They may not wish to stay, but they may have spent a few rough days on the road. Better to be prepared."

Willhelm nodded in acknowledgement, "Of course my lord. Should I have the kitchen prepare a meal?"

Jon nodded, gracing him with a slight smile. "Aye. Not a feast, but tell them to be prepared for one. If they choose to spend the night inform the cook to have one prepared for the evening meal. Fish and pork. Slaughter one of the pigs, a good sized one that will provide good meat, but tell Jeren not to sacrifice the breeding lines."

"Of course," the man said and then excused himself.

Some of the men in the castle thought Jon odd for the plans he had made in regards to food production, but every choice he made was for the benefit of his people and the whole of the north. He knew what was coming with Winter and the destruction that lack of food and men had wrought upon the land. Not just in the north, but in the south as well. Ravaged by war the Riverlands had been near empty when the true snows came. Only the noble Houses and larger towns had braved the cold. The farmlands had been burned and men slaughtered during the war of the five kings. The north had been little better, especially after the Boltons had harried the other lords during their time as wardens.

They wouldn't have that chance, Jon would make sure of it, but even then when food grew scare if Ramsay was the heir . . . he shuddered to think of what that monster might pull. Domeric Bolton, on the other hand, he was a near unknown, but his character was something entirely different from his father and half brother, if the stories were true. Bolton bannermen who had survived and knelt to them had lamented more than once that had Ramsay not poisoned his brother, something that was more than likely rightly assumed, that Domeric would have kept faith with House Stark. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but Jon hoped that the stories had at least a seed of truth within them.

Domeric would have to be warned of his half brother's character in a way that would keep him alive and see to Ramsay's destruction.

As Jon watched the riders approach the gate, still under construction, he missed Sansa even more. She was good with double speak and half truths when the need arose. She was the politically savy one while he fought the war. Too often he put his foot in his mouth when subtlety was needed. They were two halves of a coin that shouldn't be parted. Yet they had been, for now.

And now he'd have to figure out how best to approach this stranger. A ghost from the past that was now his life.

Jon stood tall, his castellan and guard at his side as the flayed man sigil entered his home. Behind him the grey and white banners of House Stark and his own, reversed colors, flapped in the breeze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No clue when this will be updated again. But next time should include a wedding.
> 
> I suppose I should warn for eventual underage in this story? Non-explicit underage? Sansa is going to be 14 when she marries 17 year old Jon. Because that's how it is done in Westeros. Plus these two were married as adults in their previous life? They're only physically underage?
> 
> They'll be together in the story in the next part I promise. Whenever I get around to writing it.


	3. White and Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several things:  
> 1\. I lied about the wedding being this chapter (not on purpose my outline said it was supposed to be). This is over 8k so I'm sure everyone will forgive me . . . right? Unlike my other WIP I outlined this in regards to "chapters" rather than whole sections to later divide to how I see fit. When this got fleshed out to . . . this size I decided to split the actual wedding scenes off on its own. This may be the largest section.  
> 2\. Why did no one tell me yesterday was apparently update time travel fics day? I was utterly unprepared! But totally enjoyed reading them all! Still tweaking the next section of VB so we'll see when I start posting it.  
> 3\. I will admit that canon Jon and Dany interaction has spurred me into writing more of this fic sooner. Not gonna lie.

Years past, in another life, Sansa had given up on prayer. Life had been a series of events that had led her deeper and deeper into pain and misery. Her father had died, her mother, her brothers . . . and her sister had been lost to her.

As a child the sept's intricate designs and statues of the Seven had intrigued her, placed in her mind a sense of rightness in the world. The Gods would lead her on the righteous path. A path of happiness and sweet, sweet songs. Nothing in the world could go wrong so long as she believed and prayed. Her prayers had been terribly self centered and filled with wishes and wants painted up to be, in her mind, needs and destiny. Petty little prayers, they were, she could see that now, more oft than not.

She had also, as her father and siblings, prayed to the Old Gods. When the New seemed to have forsaken her, when everything had fallen apart, she had spent more time than ever in the Godswood praying in King's Landing. Desperate pleas for her brother to save her, for her sister to live, and eventually for freedom. She had prayed for her moonsblood and then for it to never come. For marriage to her golden prince and then anything but.

Prayer had lost all meaning for her, eventually becoming an excuse to get away from the pain, the looks, the pity, the twitters. It was the only time that she could be alone, but for the guard that dogged her steps everywhere. She had relished in the silence, in thought instead of lifting the words up to some presence she couldn't remember ever feeling.

It wasn't until years later, when the Others began truly harrying the Watch and their allies upon the Wall, long after her return to Winterfell and reunion with Jon, Arya, and Bran that she knelt again to pray. She had prayed for Jon's safety, for the lives of her men, the North, the world. She had prayed again when Daenerys brought her army North, when a cease fire was bartered in the South and armies under dozen's of different banners trickled up the King's Road. She had second guessed herself later, when her child had died of poison while still within her womb, when the armies meant to save the realm had fallen to sickness, hunger, and cold. The death of the Blackfyre boy, Daenerys, and the dragon's they rode had shaken her further.

By then, though, she had proof that they existed in some manner. The words writ upon her breast and Jon's, Bran . . . just Bran, and the fact that magic was visible again in the world. The red witch that had raised Jon, at least in part, upon the pyre, the connection Jon and Arya shared with their wolves, the warg scouts that the Free Folk touted, and the glass candles that allowed for communication across great distances. There was no denying magic and something greater than individuals existed. No matter how horrible the world was, there was no denying it.

So she prayed. Now, here in the past, Sansa prayed even more, but instead of the Seven she knelt before the Old Gods exclusively. If nothing else than the Three Eyed Raven—Brynden Rivers or Bran or whoever from whatever time was watching—would hear her.

She leaned back as footsteps neared her, drawing her hand away from the rough white bark of the Heart Tree. Rocking back on her heals, Sansa stared up at the carved face, eyes trailing over the red sap seeping from the wood.

"Sansa?"

Smiling, she stood in one fluid movement, brushing dirt and grass from her skirts. 

"I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"You didn't," Sansa shook her head as her eldest brother neared, "and even if you had, it's fine. I don't mind the interruption." As he drew closer, she frowned. "Are you well?" Ever since the announcement of her bond with Jon, things had been a tad off between them. Robb had grown a bit awkward around them, especially since the betrothal feast. She couldn't blame him, having heard japing between all the boys—more so Theon and Robb than Jon—about girls. Theon being older had long been making the trek to Winter Town's brothel, dragging her brothers on the rare occasion. She knew Jon had never truly partaken, Robb she wasn't sure, but it wasn't her business.

"I am," Robb said, nodding, jaw tight. He was nearly as tall as when she had last seen him in her last life now, the beginnings of a beard in patches on his cheeks and chin, covering freckles born of the summer sun. 

_ Would they disappear when winter comes?  _ She wondered.

He sighed and smiled slightly. "I feel as if I am the one who should be asking that of you."

"I am fine, Robb, honest," Sansa brushed her braid over her shoulder. She tilted her chin, looking him over. "You look worried."

"I suppose I am," he said after a long pause, glancing from her, then to the Heart Tree and back. "Sansa," Robb stopped and she could tell he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Sansa, you're my sister. Jon . . . Jon will always be my brother, no matter the blood that runs inside his veins. Knowing . . . I cannot help but worry."

"I used to dream of sunshine glinting upon the armor of knights, of painted armor and fancy gowns," she reached out and settled a hand on his arm, "of princes and queens, tourneys and feasts of peacock. Of all the finest delicacies from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond."

"And now?"

"I was always going to marry a lord or prince and leave to join his household. I used to think . . . and mother used to think . . . that I would go south. Now I will be the Lady of Moat Cailin," Sansa lifted her chin, "and Jon will be the Lord."

"When I was little I thought Jon would be by my side," Robb shook his head a little, glancing down at her hand, "my brother, my shadow. When we were little, we were near inseparable. As if twins." He chuckled a little. "At least until Mother heard the whispered japes. I was moved to the heir's room not long after nurse maids became unnecessary."

"We will be but a sennight ride from Winterfell, never far from  _home,"_ Sansa said, squeezing his arm gently before dropping her hand to her side. "Jon would be the first to tell you that, no matter our relationship, you will always be his brother. Arya will always be his sister. Bran, Rickon . . . Father. We're his family. My role in his life may not be what was first thought, but my status as his bonded will not diminish his relationship with anyone else."

"I miss him."

Sansa smiled sadly. "So do I."

Seeing Winterfell for the first time in near a year was just as breathtaking as it had been when Jon had been gone for many more than that, serving with the Watch, in his last life. Only this time only ten men rode at his back, rather than an army, and he wasn't riding to battle. The guard he brought with him all originated from Winterfell and the surrounding land and each had family still living in the area they wished to visit. They shared in his excitement on the road, maintaining their duty but also sharing stories about the loved ones they were planning to visit.

There was another reason Jon was so very excited to be returning home, beside seeing his family and Sansa again. A little over a moon ago Sansa had sent him a letter describing how they had found six direwolf pups alongside their dead mother. She said there was a white one, small but thriving, for him. 

Jon had felt a mix of emotions at the news that was difficult to explain. The lack of his companion in his life had been nearly as painful as his separation from Sansa. Ghost had been a constant presence, even when they were separated by vast distances, in their last life. He has passed only a short time before their journey into the past and his loss had impacted Jon badly. While Jon and Sansa were connected now, their souls bonded together, Ghost and he also had a deep connection.  _Does Sansa understand now that she has Lady again?_ She had lost her wolf so early in their last life. They were both determined that such a thing wouldn't happen in this one. They and their siblings needed their direwolves, every one of them, alive to face the coming storm.

The smallfolk tending the fields near Winterfell greeted them warmly as they passed, most stopping work to look them over, to identify who was visiting their lord. Jon wore his current sigil proudly, the reversed colors of House Stark, and upon getting within a few miles of the castle one of his guard had lifted his banner high. At one time he might have been embarrassed, felt shame, to bear bastard colors, but after everything he lived through it no longer phased him. Once he had wished to be legitimized or to have been born a trueborn, but he had long ago accepted his identity. He held that memory close to his heart and focused on it. His world may have been shaken by the knowledge of his status as a trueborn Targaryen, but that was not his role to play here.

Not yet, if ever.

The gates were manned by familiar faces and the smallfolk outside them and along the streets in Winter Town all smiled and waved as he rode past. He acknowledged them in turn. It was nice to know that here things hadn't changed much in his absence.

He was greeted in the courtyard by a stable boy who came right up to steady his horse as he dismounted. His feet had barely met the ground before Jon found his arms full, automatically they came up to embrace the form of his soulmate as she embraced him, head tucked under his chin as she was still shorter than he was.

His eyes slid shut as he embraced her back, nose buried in her tresses. Sansa had left her hair down, mostly, styling it with only a couple braids to keep it back from her face. It was reminiscent of the style she wore most often during the time they had spent as King and Queen, ruling Winterfell and the North side by side.

"I missed you," he breathed, lips just above her ear.

"And I you." Her voice was muffled by his jerkin. 

It was so good to feel her in his arms again, her presence intermingling with his own. Jon pulled back slightly in order to press a kiss against her forehead before reluctantly forcing himself to back away from her embrace. A flash of disappointment crossed her face, but she smiled sweetly and nodded her understanding ever-so-slightly. They had been pushing the bounds of propriety, though considering their situation both were sure it would be forgiven.

She pressed her lips together and snagged his hand, clenching it tightly, slotting their fingers together.

"Jon!" Arya ran into his legs and wrapped her arms tightly about his midriff.

"Arya," he smiled down at her, hugging her back, his free hand ruffling her hair. It was down for once, completely free of any attempt at styling, though it was also free from debris and combed straight. "I missed you, little sister."

Before she could reply his attention was drawn up to his uncle. Lord Stark cleared his throat to gain it, but a smile was present on his normally solemn face.

"Lord Stark," Jon acknowledged his uncle, straightening as best he could with Arya still leaning into him. His right hand still sat upon her head.

"Jon," Ned Stark's voice was a rough rumble as he looked him over, "you've grown."

Jon's smile widened on his face as Arya pulled away from him and the next moment he found himself embraced by the man he had grown up calling father. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, enjoying the feeling. Embraces as such had always been scarce growing up, but they'd been rarer the older he was. Since returning to this time with Sansa and the truth of his parentage officially being outed due to the mark there had been a level of tension between them. Jon could have ignored it, would have, but Lord Stark seemed to assume that the news would have hit him harder than it did. It was a conscious choice to let him assume such; while Jon had known the truth for years at this point, he should have been shocked by it in this time.

He wasn't sure what to say in response and ducked his chin a little once the embrace was broken. Lord Stark's hand settled on his shoulder.

Sansa squeezed his hand again as Ned looked between them, a small smile on his face.

Clearing his throat, Jon spoke up as he glanced about the courtyard. His guards had dismounted as well, unpacking their saddlebags as the stable boys came to take their mounts. A servant had already appeared to take Jon's up to his room. He had packed light, knowing that Sansa had been working on a new wardrobe for him more befitting of his status as she had insisted.

"We were not expecting you until tomorrow," Ned spoke up then, explaining the lack of greeting. "Robb and Theon have gone hunting in the Wolfswood, they should return before supper."

"It's fine," Jon shook his head slightly, smile quirking the edge of his lips. Even after years of being a king, formal occasions always felt odd to him. He had hated them, truly, especially the stiffer affairs his aunt had forced upon him when he first treated with her and then later when she felt the need to show off. There hadn't been many, luckily, due to the need for resources to be spent elsewhere, but Daenerys had never exactly been frugal, even at the height of winter.

"Father," Sansa spoke up, "would it be all right if Arya acted as our chaperone for a few hours? I would like to show Jon Lady and her brother."

"I don't see why not," Ned said after a moments thought. "I trust the two of you will behave in front of your sister.

_ Even if you left us alone, we would. _ Jon was sure his uncle knew it as well. He had made an oath to Lady Catelyn not to do anything until their marks bleed gold, and he was not about to break that promise. It had helped that upon their return they were both so young, Sansa had only been two and ten. The first time they had been together in the future they had both been years grown, neither pure. In this life they would be each other's first. For that he was thankful. The only good thing about their separation had been the lack of temptation from being so apart.

"May I bring Nymeria?" Arya asked, turning to her sister and rocking on her heels.

Jon pressed his lips together, attempting to suppress his smile as he glanced towards Sansa. He remembered how destructive Nymeria had been, second only to Shaggydog in the damage he was capable of doing.

Sansa chewed her lip, sharing a glance with Jon before nodding. "Fine. As long as you keep her from gnawing upon everything in sight."

Smiling broadly, Arya agreed glancing toward the kennels.

"Why don't you go get your pup," Jon suggested with a smile. "I need a moment to clean up after my journey. Perhaps we can meet in hall outside your rooms in an hour?" he asked Sansa.

His rooms were nearly the same as when he had left, smaller than his . . . cousins rooms and sparse. Jon had assumed years ago that he would be joining his Uncle Benjen on the Wall and had long ago planned for that eventuality. He kept few keepsakes and those that he did were, with few exceptions, useful. There were differences, however, such as the fact that it had been cleaned recently and the linens and furs on his bed were nicer than any he'd had before. There were also several new jerkins, doublets, and tunics set upon his bed. The clothes he had left behind had also been repaired and, in a few cases, embroidered with Sansa's expert hand.

He smiled, picking up the doublet, tracing his fingers over the white wolf decorating the chest. It was dark grey, near black, and relatively simple for what he knew she was capable of. There were dark blue roses embroidered around the cuffs and a more detailed and slightly lighter grey pattern upon the sleeves. Jon knew, if he looked close enough, there would be other nods to his non-Stark heritage, hidden amongst the intricate detail on the sleeves.

There was a bowl of warm water upon the table in the corner and several clean cloths which he utilized after stripping. They had rode as hard as he was willing to push the horses since leaving the Moat, riding most of the day from dawn to dusk. It still shocked him at times, just how long that was. Winter had shortened the length of the day to near nothing at the end, at least in the North. The long night had certainly been just that. The few hours of sunlight they had been afforded had been just enough to warm the glass gardens to supply enough fresh food to supplement the North between shipments from the South and Essos.

It didn't take long for him to dress and he hesitated only momentarily before using a fresh cloth just to towel his curls dry. His hair had grown quite long and he hoped Sansa would be willing to trim it for him. She knew the way he liked it, having trimmed it for him many times, unlike the short cut he often received when younger.

He donned one of the shirts and jerkins Sansa had made for him, alongside other items she had mended while he was gone. Jon grimaced a bit as he pulled on the pair of boots that had been set at the end of his bed before kicking them off. His feet had grown while he was gone, enough so that they pinched his toes. That wasn't something he had expected, though he should have. Examining his traveling boots, which were his only other pair here, he determined they weren't too dirty.

He slammed their heels on the floor in front of the hearth, knocking a few pieces of dried mud loose. Using one of the damp rags he cleaned them up as best he could. They were a bit scuffed, but not horrible. He was sure Sansa would take notice and order him to Winterfell's cobbler tomorrow. Jon would go willingly, after checking the outfit she no doubt spent hours upon for their wedding to ensure purchase of a pair to well enough with them.

Sansa had been robbed the wedding she dreamed of as a child once, he would do everything he could to ensure this one was perfect. Every bit of it.

Sansa's room was less than he remembered it being, for lack of a better word. She had grown more frugal after the trials she went through. There was still a plethora of fabrics, likely soon to be repurposed and embroidered, and items of sentimental value, but there was a lot less of the shiny extravagance she had been attempting to build in her last life before heading south. Some of it was still there, of course, but not in the numbers they had been. The door had been open when he arrived and he could hear Arya and Sansa talking within. 

Jon stood in the doorway, eyes taking in the sight of the two sisters crouched upon the floor, three balls of fluff tumbling upon each other between them. Lady, Nymeria, and the ball of pure white fluff he had long missed. Sansa was smiling as she held a rag toy above their heads, cooing and encouraging their play. She had braided her hair, allowing it to trail down her back and out of the way of sharp puppy teeth.

His pup was the first to notice him, the girls too preoccupied with tugging upon each other's ears and tails. Red eyes blinked up at him, watching as he kneeled and held out his hand. It took mere moments for Ghost to stumble forward, still awkward on his four paws, trotting quickly toward him. He smiled as Ghost reached him, his direwolf's soft nose brushing against his fingertips.

"That one's yours," Arya told him, "Sansa insisted."

"I thought him fitting."

"He's perfect," Jon said, glancing up at his soulmate, meeting her bright blue Tully eyes. They were warm, bright as the ocean he had seen too often in recent months. He smiled back at her as Ghost bumped his head against Jon's palm and teased his fingers with his small, sharp, puppy teeth. They didn't pierce his skin, the pup was too careful for that. "Hello there," he murmured, dropping his gaze back to meet Ghosts.

"You'll have to think of a good name for him," Sansa told him, a hint of teasing beneath the words that only he could detect.

He grinned up at her as he ran a hand over Ghost's snow-white back.  "I can think of a few good names."

"We'll just have to wait and see what fits him best then, I suppose." Sansa lifted herself up, pressing her skirts down as she stepped towards him, Lady nipping at the edge of her skirts. In the few moments Jon had seen of her, it seemed as if she was giving the little Lady more leeway than in their previous life. He was glad of it.

She stopped next to him and knelt down just in time for Lady to catch sight of her brother and pounce on his little tail, teeth wrapping around it. He spun, not even yipping at the discomfort, pulled his tail from his sister's mouth and pounced back at her. They tumbled to the ground, rolling over one another. Sansa's giggle was practically music to his ears and he couldn't help but join in at the sight.

The pups tumbled about for a couple minutes before little Nymeria toddled into view and joined the squabble, a knotted rag in her mouth, tail wagging. Ghost latched on almost immediately, attempting to pull it from his sister's jaws.

"How big do you think they'll get, Jon?" Arya asked, padding over and settling down across from them.

"Probably as big as the mother, unless they are half breeds or their parents . . . ?" He trailed off look to Sansa.

"The mother certainly looked full direwolf. She was bigger than Father's horse."

"What did they do with the body?" Jon asked, furrowing his brow, trying to remember what had been done the first time.

 "Other than the injuries at her neck, her fur was in good condition. Father skinned her himself and her body was buried in the Godswood," Sansa said softly as Lady sought her attention. "I am unsure what he did with the fur after, but it would not be wasted."

No, it certainly would not. The North would not dare waste such a gift, and a gift it truly was, for the fur of a direwolf the size of Ghost's mother could cover the largest bed in Winterfell with room to spare. It was a dark thought, but truth enough. Jon wouldn't want to sleep under Ghost or any of his sibling's skinned fur, but when winter truly came they would need all the warmth the could muster. Even the hot springs piped through the castle walls hadn't kept the chill completely at bay.

_ The Moat's keep needs thicker walls. _ The thought struck him and he ran a hand through his hair, pushing the still slightly damp strands back. They were already stockpiling and drying previously felled wood from the region. They had also received firewood along with lumber as gifts for their betrothal and upcoming marriage from various houses in the North. A few houses south of the neck had also sent gifts, from the Riverlands and Vale, but most were likely waiting for their bonding ceremony.

Jon startled at the brush of Sansa's fingers against his cheek as she tugged lightly on a curl before tucking it behind his ear.

"You need a tie."

He smiled at her, ignoring Arya's scrunched face watching them out of the corner of his eye, and raised a brow. "Or a cut and shave?"

Sansa pursed her lips, running a hand down his cheek. His beard was still patchy, showing his youth. "A shave and perhaps a trim," she said, "not too short."

"Careful, Jon, else you may find ribbons braided into your hair."

"Robb!" Sanva scowled up at him, drawing back from Jon.

"Robb," Jon said with a smile, removing Ghost from where he had piled onto his lap, biting at his tunic. The pup immediately sought out Nymeria for a tumble as Jon stood and embraced his brother.

The elder boy had obviously come straight there upon returning from his hunt. There was a light dust across his skin from the road and dirt and debris from the forest upon his clothes. Jon didn't mind; he had missed his brother terribly. There had been precious little time between Jon and Sansa's return and when he had left to oversee construction at the Moat.

"Good to see you, Snow," Robb murmured, pulling back with a smile, hand still settled on his shoulder. He stared at Jon for a moment before his smile widened and he ruffled Jon's curls with his free hand. "Won't be able to call you that for long, will I?" he said as Jon swatted at him and ducked away.

"No. You won't," Sansa answered for him as she picked up Ghost and Lady, standing up. "By the old law you already wouldn't be able to." A true statement in more than one way. As soon as a mark turned silver, upon meeting, Houses were shared. If one of a pair was common born or a bastard than they gained the others family name. The continued usage of 'Snow' was a new law, a custom forced upon the North by the South. An invasive custom spread by the religion of the Seven. The sept adored order and placing everyone in their place.

That was ignoring the fact that he was legitimate by birth, a trueborn Targaryen. They just couldn't share that fact with the realm.

The realm had only ever found out years down the line, long after King Robert had died. Killed by a boar, poisoned by his wife and alcohol. His supposed children had also been dead. The realm had been in ruins and few had cared about Jon's ancestry or legal status. The reveal had shaken but a few. Lines of allegiance had already long been drawn, and only a few Houses had quietly put out feelers, unhappy to be following queens when there was a legal alternative. It had forced the dragon queen into a truce and an agreement that had led to her lending men and dragons to the Wall much quicker. Her violet eyes had still been filled with mistrust when they locked onto Jon, worrying Sansa over the future. Daenerys' jaw had clenched tight when the suggestion had been made that Jon should ride one of her dragons against the Others. No matter the warmth that she had eventually shown them, there had still been the underlying distrust. Jon was a threat to her claim. The war had only forced her to put aside thought of it, for a time.

At least his birthright had eased Lord Edmure Tully's dark glares at the sight of Jon at the head table in Winterfell when he led his meager army North. It had also gained them men from a few additional houses in the Reach and Stormlands. It had done little for them in the end. The news had come too late, to a too ravaged realm.

"True," Robb nodded, eyes brightening. "You always were a Stark, no matter your name. Now it will just be official." He lowered his voice, leaning forward, "though I wish you wouldn't be marrying our sister to get it."

Jon shot him a look as Sansa, in a very unladylike move, kicked at Robb's shins. He yelped and danced back out of the way. Had he been the Jon of two years ago where when the mark came in, perhaps he might have thought such a thing. He wasn't that Jon, though, he had years of memories further than the boy he had been.

"She's not my sister," he told Robb as he took Ghost from his soulmate and then snagged her hand with his. The pup nipped at his fingers and peered at him with bright red eyes.

Robb looked between them, a strange look passing through his eyes, as if searching for something. He must of found it because his face quickly settled into a genuine smile. "No, I suppose she isn't. But you're still my brother." His words ended in an almost question.

"I am," Jon glanced at Arya who was biting her lip at their side, "and Arya's, and Bran's, and Rickon's. That will never change. No matter who I marry."

Sansa lifted her chin, tossed her long red braid over her shoulder, and squeezed his hand. "The only person you'll be marrying is me."

The month passed swiftly as time drew closer to her nameday. Their wedding was to take place the week following and Sansa was glad for it. Having Jon back at her side, no matter that they were constantly shadowed by a sibling, guard, Jeyne Poole, or the grim faced septa, was so sweet. It had been painful, being so far apart. They were limited to the briefest of touches and holding hands.

Jeyne had, smothering soft giggles, offered to meander off during walks in the godswood, but Sansa had declined not wanting to get her friend in trouble. She still had dreams of the heads of their household mounted upon spikes on the walls of the Red Keep, Vayon Pooles among them. Sansa doesn't know what happened to her when Petyr Baelish took her from the Red Keep, but she can guess. If they compared at all to what she went through . . . Sansa hopes the girl will live a long, comfortable life in the North.

The changes in Sansa confused her friend, and others, at first. Most seem to have put it off as the change of her circumstances, she knows.

_ Such a shame, the eldest daughter of a Lord Paramount, a true beauty, destined to marry her bastard cousin. _ Not the exact words trading lips, but close enough. The whispers would have been kept from her ears, but Sansa had learned under the thumb of masters. In the days following their return, it had become her prerogative to learn know everything she could regarding the happenings in Winterfell and the North. Knowledge was power and words could help or hinder their goals.

It shocked her to think of it sometimes, how once the whispers might have bothered her, in another life. Now? Now she knows secrets that would have those same people clamoring for her white wolf's attention. Sansa knows secrets that could fell a dynasty, if the right person knew of them. If only she had the ability to whisper them into the right ears. It was trouble enough identifying the spies other houses hand installed in Winterfell and Winter Town, even with all of her knowledge. As a child she paid little attention to the small folk and only slightly more to Winterfell's household. The people within Winterfell's walls had been very different when they retook it. Most of the people that passed her in the halls or courtyard now had been long dead in her memories.

Things were so different now, at least here, since their return. The memories of both sets of lives warred within her and sometimes Sansa had to pause and think whether an event or conversation had happened one way or another. At times she could tell her actions or comments confused people, though it was rare for any to comment on. Perhaps the biggest change that had her mother pursing her lips and furrowing her brow and been Sansa's approach to her wedding.

In a perfect world Robb would have been the first of their generation to marry within Winterfell's godswood. His wife would have been a Northern beauty, perhaps one of the Manderly girls or Alys Karstark. It would have been attended by all the Northern Lords, lavish gifts presented to them, jeers and japes to be had, and a bedding ceremony with giggling maids and pawing lords, too deep in their cups. The first grandchild her Lady Mother would receive would have been heir to Winterfell and the North, toddling through warm stone halls within reach of their grandparents.

This wasn't a perfect world, though, and life she lived before hadn't been either. If everything went the way they hoped, Robb may receive such a wedding, but he wasn't to be the first. That honor was to go to Sansa and Jon in this time.

Sansa had shocked her mother with her requests for the wedding. Where once she might have asked for things out of reach, demanded and cried to get as close to her way as possible, she now asked for simpler things. The most extravagant items she had asked for were the lemon cakes and sugared fire berries Daenerys had introduced them to during one of her feasts. Jon had loved them, though he tried not to show it. They had been the highlight of the entire spectacle the dragon queen had pushed at them. She hoped to surprise him with them. Her mother had been the voice to insist on certain additions to the festivities, made them more lavish. It was a trend that had her mother eying her with furrowed brow when she thought Sansa wasn't watching.

Her mother had been watching her a lot lately. It had started when Jon's heritage and their bond had been revealed and never really went away. Worry was a constant in Lady Catelyn's features now, she knew the risks her daughter was taking but had pursed her lips together, knowing their was no way she could deny Sansa her soulmate. No matter the risks.

In contrast Sansa's parents seemed to be enjoying a better relationship now, something had healed between them that neither had wanted to recognize was wrong before. The truth of Jon's birth showing her mother that Ned had been nothing but true to her. It had taken a while for things to settle after the initial reveal, the long standing lie had still existed between them and now a new lie was shared and still gave cause for tension.

She couldn't help but feel sorry for her father and yet the confused whispers and speculative conversations she overheard from the servants and guard sometimes left her giggling madly. Gossip spread quick in castles and oft lost most of the truth by the time it circled about. In this case the full lie that they had decided on had yet to be revealed, just the idea planted. Her Lord Father didn't owe the smallfolk an explanation, so he didn't give one to them and remained stoic as ever when the topic came up.

Jon was known as Brandon's now. Ned didn't have to answer to anyone but his lady wife as to why he hid that fact, especially as it had been let slip that Jon was still a bastard. Something Sansa had saw fit to 'confirm' to Jeyne in a private conversation when a particularly chatty maid was about. There would be no war of succession over Winterfell.

"Would you like something a bit more intricate today, sweetling?" Catelyn asked as she ran a comb through Sansa's long red hair. It was ivory, a gift from her grandfather Lord Hoster Tully, on her tenth name day.

"No," Sansa glanced up at her mother, smiling softly, "the usual braids, I should think."

"Are you sure?" her mother asked, settling a portion of her hair over Sansa's left shoulder and working on another. "It's your name day."

"And my wedding is in a sennight," Sansa shifted forward again, fingers playing over the flowers embroidered on her pale blue skirt. It had taken her a couple weeks to complete. "Besides," she painted a love struck smile on her face—not that it was hard, "Jon likes my hair down." He did and they were truly were in love.

The love between them was undeniable and Sansa knew it seemed to have grown over night to those around them. The household and various lords had already witnessed it and those that were arriving for the festivities soon would as well. Lords and ladies, along with their children, from across the North were already arriving, mostly those that lived farther away. Over the coming week more people would arrive daily, visitors coming to witness their bonding and others just bringing gifts from their lords.

Soulmates were recognized across the seven kingdoms as blessed, no matter their birth status. The Seven may look down upon certain pairings and not automatically recognize the bond in the manner the religion of the Old Gods did, but tradition still did. While the North had celebrated their betrothal, many from the South had sent them tokens for their upcoming nuptials. Lords from the Riverlands and Vale were visiting, many with their children of marriageable age hoping they may be blessed with finding a suitable match during the festivities. With dozens if not hundreds of highborn visitors descending upon them, the kitchen staff had been preparing for months. Cook had been in a right state when Sansa snuck down to check the progress of the deserts she ordered.

Tonight they would feast in celebration of her name day, the rest of the week they would also have smaller feasts to welcome their visitors. At the end of it everything would culminate with their marriage and the most extravagant feast of them all. Sansa had once dreamed of peacock on her wedding day and had been shocked to see the birds strutting about in a pen near the chickens and snow ducks just days earlier.

They were a gift, part of a larger gift it seemed, from the Crown. King Robert Baratheon had politely declined the invitation to the wedding, but in a polite letter that was clearly penned by either a scribe or Jon Arryn, he had extoled Brandon Stark and how wonderful it was that his legacy would live on in a son. The letter had kept the japes against her father to one single comment and there had been only a few tamely worded insults against the Targaryens.

Upon reviewing the gifts King Robert had sent them, it had been clear the glutton of a king had likely placed the crown a few thousand more gold dragons in debt at least. That wasn't even counting the men he had apparently sent to aid in the reconstruction of Moat Cailin. She had read the letter alongside Jon, holding his hand and squeezing it when his lips pressed tight at the kings lament over the loss of Lyanna.

Perhaps if he could have let Lyanna go after her death, the realm would have been in a better state. _Mayhap Cersei wouldn't have sought comfort in her brother._

When her mother had completed the braids she stepped back, allowing Sansa to stand and press the wrinkles out of her skirts. Sansa eyed herself in the mirror upon her desk; it was angled perfectly to show her face and torso from where she stood. Behind her, she could see her mother smiling softly.

"How do I look?" Sansa asked as she turned to face her.

Catelyn stepped forward, set the ivory comb upon the stool, and then smoothed her hands over Sansa's shoulders before gently squeezing them. "You look lovely. All eyes will be on you tonight, sweetling."

Sansa rolled her eyes, but smiled. "There's only one set of eyes I want on me," she said softly. Picking up the comb she went to place it away.

"And he will surely be struck speechless at the sight of you."

At the words, Sansa couldn't help but laugh. Jon speechless? Her mother joined in with soft chuckles as well. Everyone in Winterfell knew how prone to silences Jon was.

"Anything he tries to say will be twisted upon his tongue," her mother said after the laughter died down, moving forward to embrace her and drop a kiss upon her forehead. "You are beautiful."

Leaning forward, Sansa hugged her mother, relishing in the feeling. These moments were the ones she had missed most, had oft dreamed of. Now they motivated her to prevent the worst from happening.

Soon, she knew, a raven would fly North bringing dark words and there was nothing she or Jon could do to stop it and the royal procession that would soon follow. The only thing they could do at this point was mitigate the damage Aunt Lysa and Littlefinger would cause, especially upon the North.

Winterfell's great hall was one of the simplest Sansa knew of. Smooth stone walls, untouched by plaster for so long, if they ever had been, that not a speck of it remained. Instead of paintings or tile murals, tapestries hung along, depicting different events in the 8000 year history of House Stark. Legends and history came to life in the stories they told. Though most depicted events prior to Aegon's conquest, there were a few from after, but not many. There was one, not quite hidden in the far corner of room, depicting the Hour of the Wolf wherein the story of Lord Cregan Stark was depicted. While not too obvious, the tapestry did depict Prince Jacaerys' dragon Vermax in the corner, flying over Winterfell as the two men treated.

The braziers and hearths lit the room, flowers adorned the tables, curling about dishes of her favorite foods alongside the simpler fares that were found at any northern feast. The crowd was boisterous, musicians waited their turn, curling songs into the room and enticing people to dance. Sansa had always loved feasts as a child, they always seemed so fun, so grand. They had also brought new people into her quiet home, potential suitors to try and steal her heart. Before she would have sat aside Jeyne or another friend, a visiting lady her own age perhaps, giggling over the lads and hoping to be asked to dance.

That was then, however, and this is now. She sat next to her mother on the dias alongside her family, alongside her soulmate. Jon had never liked dancing, and truly he was never exactly good at it. Long ago she had frowned whenever the septa had insisted he or Theon work through the steps with her. He had at least been sweet about it, but her feet had always been sorest when he was the one that led.

Jon wasn't the same boy that he had been then and she wasn't the same girl. In their last life, during their sparse free moments together, they had sat quietly in their rooms before the hearth, sometimes sung and sometimes revealed in each other's presence. Far less often she had taken his hand, or he hers, and they had swayed through steps half forgotten. They had relearned them together, quietly, to tunes softly sung in their own voices.

_ We need to present a picture to our people. _ She told her king the first time she took his hand and pulled him towards the center of his solar and lectured him on posture.

_ Winter is here, song and dance, feasts and spectacles are just a waste of time. _

_ The people need hope, it is our job to give it to them. _ It had been and they had done it well. A babe in winter had been a risk, and initially unplanned, but keeping it had been another choice to spark hope in their people's hearts. A choice that had ended in heart break and tears when Cersei's plots stole her child from her.

"May I have this dance, my lady?" Jon stood next to her, bare hand extended to her.

"Of course, my lord," she responded without hesitation, taking his hand and allowing him to aide her to her feet and lead her towards the dance floor, their guests parting to allow them passage.

They waited to start for a minute or so on the edges of the group already there as the current song wound down and the beginning of a sweeter ballad, one of Sansa's favorites, began. She raised an eyebrow, smiling brightly, as he lead her into the center of the crowd and they began the steps. Jon wasn't as deft with his footwork as he was in the future, but he adjusted swiftly to his younger, still growing body.

When the song ended and the next began, another of her favorite, Sansa paused mid-step for a moment. "That's where you were! Really, Jon, bribing the minstrels?"

"Bribe?" Jon chuckled, sweeping her into the next move, carefully avoiding her toes. "There was no need to ply them with coin. I just had to ask." They drew close with the next movement. "This is a feast in your honor. Playing your favorite songs is what they should be doing, especially while I'm letting you put me through paces."

"Letting me, are you?" She wrinkled her nose, lips still quirked.

"Aye," he murmured, lips not far from her ear for a few steps, "I am the one that asked, am I not."

"And here I thought you were asking out of the kindness of your heart," she japed at him.

"My heart certainly had something to do with it." He squeezed her hand gently as the song wound down. Another started and she couldn't help but pull him into it. If he was going to poke fun, he could practice the steps of a few more songs with her. 

Besides, it was nice to have him so close again, without worrying about others seeing something inappropriate happening between them. In this crowded hall, they were able to be closer together than they had in the past year. 

"Thank you," he said, voice low with a hint of the rough quality that it would gain in a few years, after a silence that carried them through half the next song.

Sansa looked up at him, meeting his gaze. His grey eyes were soft, face open and a small, sweet smile graced his lips. Tilting her head, she followed the steps of the song, turning briefly away before stepping back to him. The bond between them made it easier for her to read him, but it took a moment for her to puzzle together his meaning. Because of her, during this trip back in time, his life had changed so much. Because of them together, bonded, their family might have a chance. 

"If anyone we should be thanking Bran," she whispered to him softy. "It's because of him we're here."

"Can you imagine if we did?" his breath whispered against her cheek before he stepped back again.

It would confuse him, their little brother. He was a far cry from the person he would become. _The Three Eyed Raven_. It tore at her heart to imagine him going through what had crafted him into the disconnected man he became. Bran was still so lively now, climbing everywhere and getting into trouble with Arya and sometimes little Rickon. It was hard to reconcile the two at times.

She hated herself for thinking that, unlike the Arya of the future, Sansa didn't really miss Bran.

"My mother would think it highly inappropriate if she knew just how much I am looking forward to our wedding night." The words had just the effect Sansa knew they would; painting her soulmates cheeks a lovely shade of pink as he darted a look towards her mother. She giggled a little at the sight before continuing, "I won't miss having a guard trailing our every step."

"I miss our solar," Jon agreed, tangling their fingers together and ignoring the next steps. 

"We'll have another."

He nodded as the song ended and lifted her hand to brush his lips upon it. "We already do . . . I cannot wait to show you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't post S7 ep 6 spoilers in my comments. I haven't seen it and won't until Sunday. I currently have to avoid YT and searching through fanfiction summary's for new fics because I stumbled across spoilers in summaries and in the titles and images on my YT recs. It pisses me off.


	4. Gold and Grey

The crypts had once been a source of fear, excitement, and pain. The long, dark halls lined with statues of the Kings of Winter holding their iron swords, direwolves at their side had been a source of nightmares for Jon once. _You don't belong._ The voices of long dead kings and lords had echoed through his dreams and into his bones. It hadn't been until after they had retaken the castle, after he and Sansa had married, and after he had taken her name, divesting himself of _Snow_ and later _Targaryen_ outside of diplomacy that the unease had dissipated.

As a child he had never been barred from the crypts, though rarely were he or any of his siblings allowed to venture into the dark, winding, halls alone. One of his first memories involved the cool, grey statues, seemingly giants towering over him. Father had held his hand that day, both his and Robb's, his voice a steady thrum as he told them the names and stories of their recent ancestors. It was the only time Jon could remember him speaking of his sister, what little he said, as he quietly showed them the statues of their grandfather, uncle, and aunt. Jon's mother.

She was the only woman to be buried in their own crypt, the only one immortalized in stone. There were others, Old Nan insisted in her stories, buried alongside husbands and sometimes babes, but Lyanna Stark held the singular honor of her placement. Her brother had honored her in death in a way that none could do among the living. _Princess Lyanna Stark_ of House Targaryen and House Stark. Where Jon's uncle couldn't speak the truth of her death and status to the living, he could share it with the dead.

"Do you remember when Robb convinced Arya and I to come down here to look for dragon eggs and you leapt out of the dark covered in flour?"

Jon chuckled, smiling as he found her at the edge of the torchlight. "You didn't speak to either of us for a fortnight."

"Arya thought it was hilarious." Sansa slipped the hood of her dark cloak back as she came to stand next to him. The glow of the torch above them, the only one lit within their line of sight, illuminated her hair, turning it into a blaze of crimson with gold highlights glinting slightly.

"Aye," Jon agreed, laughter bubbling, "right after she attacked me."

"You deserved it!" Sansa knocked her shoulder into his and then leaned against him as he wrapped his arm around her side. "Both of you."

"Robb got away without bruises."

"Only from Arya. His ear was sore for a sennight when mother found out he was the one cook saw taking the flour."

"Hard to believe it's been near eight years now," Jon murmured when the laughter had died away, turning to look at the statue they stood before.

"Or twenty." She sighed, placing her hand over his where it rested on the thick grey wool of her dress at her hip. It was one of her simpler ones, lacking embroidery, and along with the cloak it let her slip through the halls near unnoticed.

Jon pressed a kiss against the side of her head, parting his fingers to allow her cool digits to slip between his warm ones. It was still summer, technically, but the season was edging towards autumn. Flurries of summer snow were becoming more common place and farmers were beginning to finish harvesting and planting the last of the summer crops, instead cultivating the hardier higher yielding autumn crops. She curled their fingers together, pressing his fingertips against her palm.

"We don't have long," she told him, tilting her head to meet his gaze.

They didn't. He had slipped away to the godswood hours ago to pray, only coming here after under the pretense of visiting his father's statue. He would be missed soon, he was sure, and Sansa even sooner. This was the first time they had dared to sneak away from their watchers; in less than a day they would be bound as tight as the Gods allowed two people to be . . . there was no punishment her mother could enforce that would stop it at this point. While he was loathe to break part of his vow, Sansa had insisted upon this and couldn't deny her.

It was dangerous, but rumors over behavior one day before a wedding were easily overlooked compared to rendezvous occurring weeks and months prior. While they were both careful and new the castle and grounds as intimately as they knew one another, Winterfell was filled to the brim, bustling with people to celebrate their pending nuptials. It was hard to fathom, the number of people who had come. There were more people even then when the northern lords, their few southern allies, and the remnants of the Free Folk had converged on Winterfell to face the Others. More people than when King Robert Baratheon had journeyed north to make Lord Stark Hand of the King.

She pulled away from him, slipping her fingers from his and took the torch from the wall and then held her right hand towards him.

Jon took it, tangling their fingers together, allowing her to guide him through the passageway. Sansa had spent more time here then him, in the end, when they had cleared the crypts of the dead to make room for the living. The dark wasn't an obstacle without bodies getting a few precious moments of sleep, recovering from injuries, and the littlest children tumbling about, making up games in the shadows. It had been her duty as Lady of Winterfell and Queen of the North, until Cersei's poison had stolen her energy.

He grasped her hand tightly as the light of the torch was cast upon more familiar statues and into empty crypts. Robb's, Rickon's, Father's . . . until they came upon his mother.

It was hard to separate out his emotions when he stood before her, much as it had been when he screamed himself hoarse as tears clouded his vision at the stone face of Eddard Stark when the truth of his birth had been revealed to him. Jon had known they were wed, Bran had told him, and Lord Reed had confirmed the truth of it with documents and letters saved from the Tower of Joy. Sam had brought him record of it from the Citadel. The maesters had either overlooked the detail transcribed amidst irrelevant and useless tidbits of information or had chosen to ignore it in favor of allowing the realm to cling to lies as truth.

Jon hadn't known they were bonded. It was a fact that had it him hard in the stomach. The High Septon's note had left any mention of it out, listing their marriage as a wedding before the Seven. It was that wedding that Bran had sought out and seen in a vision, relayed to them. He ached to know how soon they had married. The tourney at Harrenhall had not been far from the Isle of Faces, one of the few places in the south where weirwood trees still grew, their red sap vital to the bonding ritual. Had they bonded then? But why would they have not shared the news with the realm then?

_A bonding is sacred in the North, why did they not tell Lord Rickard and Uncle Brandon? Why allow the realm to spiral into war?_

Since the fact of Rhaegar and Lyanna being bonded had settled in his mind, after the initial ruckus of his bonding to Sansa died down to simmer, Jon had dreaded this moment. Facing the statue of his mother and the knowledge of the choices his parents made . . . knowing the pain they had caused . . .

Sansa tightened her fingers around his and pressed against his side.

Jon let himself relax, allowing his soul mate to support him.

"She loved you," Sansa said softly, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss against his knuckles.

"I know."

He dropped his eyes to meet hers.

She furrowed her brow and raised her hand, smoothing her fingers over his brow lightly. "What?"

"I loathe that their bonding . . . I loathe that it and my birth led to—" Jon cut himself off and sighed, leaning in to her palm and closing his eyes as she cupped his cheek. "I feel guilty that I am also glad of their ill choices. Without . . . if . . . I wish Uncle Brandon had not died, but if he had lived you wouldn't be here."

"And you would be stuck in a castle, set to marry some southron beauty. Margaery Tyrell, perhaps?" Sansa hummed in thought as Jon slanted his eyes open. "No, I think the Tyrells would—"

He cut her off her japing with a kiss that lingered both too long and not long enough.

She smiled at him blue eyes sparkling in the torchlight when he relaxed his fingers where they tangled in her hair and pulled back just enough to press their foreheads lightly together.

"I don't want to even think of such a life."

"Good," Sansa leaned forward and stole another, quick kiss, "neither do I."

 

 

 

There was little sleep to be had that night; Sansa woke with the sun as Lady pressed a cool nose against her cheek. For all that she had but a few hours of sleep, Sansa felt rested, energy tingled through her being. Her bedding was warm and the air in the room cool as the shutter had been left open to allow more air through the room.

"Hello, lovely," she murmured, running her fingers over the darker grey marks that highlighted the features of her direwolf's face. The pup whined and licked her fingers gently adjusting herself deeper into the furs covering the bed. Sansa turned slightly, to lay on her side, as she carded her fingers through Lady's thick fur. She could see the through the window from here, the tops of the highest battlements, and the horizon as it glowed gold, pink, and slightly purple and faded into the grey night sky.

Blue had seeped across the sky, the bright colors of sunrise near gone, by the time a light knock on the door had her sitting up.

"My lady?"

"Come in, Gwelda," Sansa called, pushing the furs back as she moved to sit on the edge of her bed.

The young servant girl, who had recently been assigned to Sansa, opened the door and stepped in, a small smile on her face. The girl was one of the few who had made it through the Bolton's reign over Winterfell in her last life. With the aid of a few others, Gwelda had slipped Sansa moon tea at least once a month to prevent the bastard's seed from taking root. Like many, she had come out scarred and alone, her family slaughtered by Ironmen and the Bolton soldiers. A burn scar across her face and shoulders had, ironically, saved her from additional suffering.

"Lady Stark has ordered a bath be brought up, my lady," Gwelda said as she settled a pitcher of fresh water upon Sansa's desk and a tray filled with food. "When you are ready."

"Thank you, Gwelda." The floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she crossed the room. Lady burrowed deeper into the bedding, watching Sansa, eyes half-mast. Sansa smiled softly at the direwolf as she poked at the array of meat, eggs, bread, and fruit. Sliced apricots and apples lay across one side and she picked one up, biting into it and savoring the sweet tang. Snagging a slice of meat and several slices of apple she crossed back to her bed. It would take a while for the tub to be filled. "A bath sounds lovely." Lady carefully took the sliced mutton from her fingers. "On your way, could you ask that one of my siblings retrieve Lady when they wake?"

"Of course, my lady."

Sansa licked her fingers after taking the last bite of the apple slice, ran her other hand over Lady's head, and glanced out the window. Standing she had a much better view. Servants were skittering about, taking care of final preparations. A few guards were sparring in the training yard, barely visible from her line of sight. _Is Jon down there?_ The morning before their last wedding had been a rush of last minute preparations during which Sansa had ended up exiling her betrothed to the yard to keep himself occupied until mere hours before the ceremony, at which point Laurence Snow had made followed her orders to drag him to the baths.

It was her wedding day and her mother had arranged for a private bath in Sansa's room, several servants deposited the tub in the middle of the chamber as others began the process of transporting the heated water. Even as Queen, she had rarely divulged in such, instead preferring to bath in rooms piped with water from the hot springs everyone else used. Sometimes—she blushed at the thought—Jon had closed it off for an hour or two, allowing privacy while soaking . . . and other activities.

Since her mark had appeared, Sansa had been forced to be cautious during baths, unable to rely on handmaidens in any way when her breast was bared. None could be allowed to see the name that crossed her skin. _Jaehaerys Targaryen_ was too dangerous for even the most loyal servant to know. She was glad that tradition and law limited the eyes who could see a woman's mark. So long as Jon bore _Sansa Stark_ upon his skin, none could question or request to see hers. Only a few would glimpse it during the recording, to prove that both marks bled gold and that the bonding was completed. Without King Robert present, there were none outside of family with authority to insist on being present during the viewing.

The water was brought in steaming, not far from boiling. As the train of maids passed, Sansa settled in a chair and munched silently, feeding scraps to Lady until Arya, sleepy eyed, appeared at the door, hair still mussed from sleep, to take Lady to the godswood for a time. The water was still too hot when she had finished breaking her fast, so she used a rag to clean her hands and checked the stitching on her dress where it hung, examining every detail. Her mother had helped, as had many of her friends. Even Arya had stitched little wolves along the bottom of her skirts, pale grey against the snow white of the body.

Her skin pinked quickly, when she finally stepped into the water. It was on the verge of being too warm, but it relaxed her muscles and seeped into her being. It was her mother, perhaps twenty minutes into the soak, who settled next to her, kneeling upon a pillow to help her wash. The soap was lightly scented, lavender wafted gently through the air as soap was rinsed from her hair. As Sansa washed, her mother kept a steady murmur of words, telling of her own wedding, of weddings she had witnessed.

It was hard on her, Sansa knew, her mother had never been fond of Jon and even now, knowing he was not father's bastard, it was difficult for her to let go of her disdain. She was trying, though, and that was enough for now.

"Thank you, mother," Sansa said once she was near dry, standing in naught but her smallclothes.

"I wish," Catelyn pushed a damp strand of hair behind Sansa's ear, smiling softly, "I wish you all the happiness in the world."

There was moisture cloying at the edges of her mother's eyes. _I will only be truly happy when we know our family, and the North, is safe from our enemies._ It pained her to think on the dreams her mother dwelled on. So many potentials shattered with a simple scrawl of letters on Sansa's skin.

 _"I’m supposed to marry Prince Joffrey! I love him! And I’m meant to be his queen and have his babies!"_ A shock spiraled down her spine at the memory of the future she would have lived—had lived—and she shivered slightly.

Catelyn's hands grasped her arms gently. "We should get you dressed. I will call a maid to stoke the fire."

"Mother," Sansa said, catching her mother's arm.

Blue eyes met hers, nearly a mirror of her own. There was a time that she hated how much she took after _Lady Catelyn Tully_. Days where eyes followed her every step, where terms of endearment for her were swiftly followed by professions of love for her mother. Those times were long gone now, by the end she'd been thankful for the connection to her mother and siblings lost to her.

"Never doubt how happy I am about this, mother. As a child I may have dreamed of golden princes and southron knights, but can you honestly tell me King's Landing and the royal family would have brought me true happiness. Before—" her hand fluttered up to press against the cloth of her smallclothes above her heart. "Do you truly believe in the capital I could find better than a man as gentle, honorable, and kind as Jon? A prince in his own right, no matter the lies we are forced to tell? Would you rather see me living in King's Landing amongst the courtly gossip and wading through greed and politics or living in the North, not even a fortnight away, raising the children of a man who would die for me. Who would rather slit his own throat than lay a hand on me or allow another to?"

"Sansa," Catelyn's voice quivered a little, shock lacing through the force of the word.

She pulled her hand back upon realizing how tight her hold had been and folded her hands together. "I'm sorry." Glancing away, her eyes settled upon where her wedding accoutrement was laid out. "Sorry, I should—"

"Sansa," her mother repeated, stepping a little closer. "Sansa . . . you have nothing to be . . . I am sorry." When Sansa glanced at her, she could see a few tracks of moisture fallen from beneath Catelyn's bright eyes. "I have never wanted anything but the best for you. I want you to be happy. More than anything I hope that you will live a live filled with nothing but happiness." She stepped forward and took Sansa's hands in hers. "I know in my heart that Jon . . . that he will bring this to you. My mind, though?" Leaning forward, Catelyn pressed a kiss to her forehead. "It still needs some work."

"Thank you."

Catelyn nodded and then, after a moment, a brighter smile slipped into being. "And I am certainly more than happy that any grandchildren you give me will be but a short ride away."

 

 

 

It was just past midday, the castle having allowed for a prolonged early meal, bits of food settled along the tables in the great hall to sate hungry northmen and pad the stomachs of the twittering southerners, when she stood at the edge of the godswood. The clearing was crowded, that was clear even from the stone archway that led to the acres of forest within Winterfell's walls, and the crowd stretched further into the trees and lined the path to the Heart Tree. The number of guests that had traveled to see them wed took her breath away. It was more than her wedding to Ramsay, more than her first wedding to Jon, and, discounting the crowds in King's Landing, more even than the sham that was her wedding to Tyrion.

Sansa met her father there, just inside the walls, wedding dress trailing over stone and flower petals of pink, blue, and white. Only her handmaiden's, Jeyne Poole, and her mother had seen the finished product, having helped with the final adjustments.

"Sansa, sweetling," her father's normally stoic face wrought with emotion when he caught sight of her, his jaw worked as he fought to push out the right words. Jon and he were so alike at times. "You are beautiful. You made this?"

Robb had teased her more than once on how her fingers would get stuck one day, tensed as if holding a needle, at the table during meals. It had never been harsh, and she had taken it with stride, teasing him back about quirks of his swordplay. Arya had taught her a lot more than she ever thought—her and Jon. The memory of their lessons, the ones Sansa had watched and the few she had joined, in the yard with all manner of men, women, and children, doing her some good. Knowing things were different, the flush of crimson over her brother's cheeks was more than worth the momentary heartache.

"I did." Sansa glanced down, running her hand over the skirt and the mixture of greys and silver that accented the pale grey of the skirt and white of the bodice. It was a modest northern cut, but embroidered intricately with layers telling a story only she knew. A story of wolves, young and old, of Ghost and Lady, Jon and Sansa. Beneath her maiden cloak, draped across her shoulders, hidden amidst the imagery of House Stark, was a pale white dragon, blending in with the wolves around it. The good parts, and only a touch of the bad. Her sleeves were long, fingers and palm left bare. She glanced up, chin still down, lips quirking slightly. "Do you like it?"

Her father nodded and stepped forward, pulling her into an embrace. After a moment he pulled back, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head. "I like the wolf bit," he told her softly as he stepped back and offered her his arm.

Smile widening at his words, Sansa slit her arm into his and stepped forward, alongside her father, through the archway and into the godswood.

 _So, like Jon,_ Sansa thought. Compliments stumbled on the lips of all Stark men. Robb seemed to have the easiest time with words of all her family, but even he couldn't truly be charming. And yet they say her uncle, Brandon Stark, had the women falling head over heels into his furs. _How could anyone believe the lie that Jon is he his son?_

Logic wins out, though, and the personality of the parent is not indicative of the child. The Targaryens alone were examples of such. No matter the words whispered of them, madness was much rarer among them than the words of King Robert and his ilk would suggest. None could argue that stoic Jon, even from the time he was a young lad, had little of Brandon Stark's wildness within him. Just yesterday, Lord Umber had called Jon a _fine warrior, but a bashful maid_ and crowed how Ned had raised Jon 'right' all the good of his brother and none of the wild.

They knew not the rage of the dragon, the fierceness of the wolf hidden within Jon's soul that he released only against their enemies.

_Pray, they never need know_

The sun was high, shining past its apex. The warmth of it seeped through her dress and cloak, guarding against the cool summer breeze that slipped through the trees. Sansa was thankful for the bright blue sky, the green of the grass between the trees and in the clearing ahead. The morning dew had long been dried by the sun. It might be said that snow during a wedding was good luck, but she didn't share that experience. Not since Ramsay.

The petals that lined the path were a lovely tease of color, fading to pure white as they grew close to the pale weirwood. Around the trees base was a splattering of deep crimson petals. Centuries ago, millennia perhaps, each man and woman that stood witness would have cut themselves and bled, at least a few drops, upon pale white petals or just the ground around the roots, wishing prosperity and seeking luck as they blessed the union of the two souls being joined. The practice had fallen out of favor, first in the South when the Andals invaded, first with their men and then their culture infecting that of the remaining First Men south of the neck, and then when the Aegon Targaryen conquered the lands it fell further out of favor.

The dragon lords hadn't outright outlawed it, unlike the truly horrid practice of First Night, but neither had they spoken against the punishments doled out by septons either.

With large numbers of southern lords and ladies—their style of dress and hair standing out amongst the Northern simplicity—having come North to see Jon and Sansa bonded, there was no need to start whispered gossip of savage, uncouth, barbaric northmen. They need not know or see people slipping through the godswood when the moon is high, alone or in pairs, to drop a spot of blood upon the Heart Tree's roots.

Today they would see a wedding, simpler perhaps than some southern fares, but beautiful and joyful. Sansa was glad of all the additions her mother had made to what she requested, seeing the faces watching as she passed. She was glad of the time she spent, hunched over fabric, needle and thread in hand, pouring detail and minute detail into her dress and Jon's clothes, determined to ensure they were royal in appearance no matter the celebrations that surrounded them.

She caught sight of Jon, finally, as they neared the pool of water at the base of the weirwood, the crowd having parted to form a ring about the tree. 

Their family stood at the front, along with close friends and loyal lords. House Stark stood on both side of the tree, her brothers on the right and mother and sister on the left. At Robb's feet lay Ghost, watching intently, his white fur groomed to perfection. Lady sat prettily next to Arya, a collar of winter roses twined about her neck. House Tully, joined by her Aunt Lysa and little Robin, stood next to her mother. It had been hard to get a read upon her grandfather, the man still believed Jon to be a bastard, but as ill and weak as he was he had still come. No matter the insult that was Jon's birth—Brandon Stark while betrothed to Catelyn or Ned while married to her—he had at least come.

She was startled, for a moment, upon the sight of Edric Dayne, younger than she had ever seen him, and his aunt Allyria standing beside Bran and little Rickon. The Daynes, the elder ones at least, had known of Jon since not long after his birth. They had kept their silence on the matter of his lineage, protected him as Ser Arthur and the other King's Guard had until their deaths, allowing the rumors that plagued Ashara's honor to spread without reprisal. House Dayne had been the ones to supply Jon's wet nurse and arrange a guard and ship to transport Lyanna Stark's body north. 

No matter the pain that members of House Stark had caused them, House Dayne had, at the very least, kept faith with the heir of House Targaryen. Hidden or not. They deserved to stand at a point of honor at Jon's side on this day, for that alone.

"Who comes before the Old Gods to be wed and bonded on this day?" 

A Green Man stood at the base of the tree, before its crying face. The sight of him startled her for but a moment. His order rarely left the Isle of Faces; she had several of them but once before, not long before Bran wove the spell that sent them back through time.

She lifted her chin.

"Sansa Stark of Winterfell, a woman grown, trueborn and noble, marked by silver seeks the blessing of the Old Gods." As her father spoke, a rumbling sound that radiated through the godswood, her eyes moved to meet her soulmates where he stood, facing her to the right of the Heart Tree's carved face.

"Who comes to claim her?"

"Jon of House Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin." He wore the clothes she had sewn for him well. The cut of them clearly northern, yet with a southern twist she remembered from the paintings forgotten in the depths of the red keep. Grey on grey, hints of black, and House Stark's direwolf sigil embroidered in white. There was a hint of red for the eye, a nod to Ghost, and a darker crimson hidden among the embroidery at his cuffs. Beneath his layers, pressed against her name upon his heart, a red, three headed dragon lay hidden, facing inward.

He smiled at her, grey eyes clear, a slight flush across his cheek bones. Sansa returned the smile with one of her own, feeling the heat rising to her own cheeks. Jon looked more a prince than perhaps he had ever looked a king before. His hair was done back in a mimicry of the style he wore when he led the North to battle, the curls carefully tamed but laying against his neck the way she liked it.

"Who brings her?"

"Her father, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

Her arm slipped from his and she stepped forward until she reached the first crimson petals, taking her place next to Jon.

"Lady Sansa," the Green Man's voice thrummed with an ancient sort of power. The feeling of it reminded her of Bran and the magic he had wielded that winter night, "will you take this man. Will you accept him as your husband, your bonded for all of time?"

Sansa turned to face her soulmate and held out her left hand, palm up. "I take this man. As he was, is, and will be."

The Green Man stepped forward, a dagger in hand. It was old and made of dragonglass that shone red at the edges and glittered gold and silver across the blade. The hilt was made of weirwood, intricately carved with runes of the First Men and the Children. A bright red ruby, held in place by gold, formed the pommel. It was unlike any dragonglass dagger Sansa had ever seen. It was beautiful.

He took her hand gently, fingers warm and loose, and carefully slit the skin of her palm enough for a line of blood to flow. Then he squeezed her hand just so, forcing a small pool of blood to form in her palm.

"Lord Jon, will you take this woman. Will you accept her as your wife, your bonded for all of time?"

"I take this woman," Jon spoke immediately, stepping forward as well, holding out his left hand, "as she was, is, and will be."

The process was repeated, a cut across Jon's palm and the small pool of blood formed swiftly.

She marveled that it didn't hurt, not after the move of the knife and not now. The blood puddled on her palm hadn't grown either. Their first bonding had been messier. Arya had slit their palms as gently as she could, but it had taken days for the ache to go away and weeks before it healed enough to stop itching.

The Green Man turned then, and knelt before the Heart Tree. Words fell from his lips in the old language, a blessing and a request. A prayer. Sansa knew the basics, though she couldn't truly speak the language. As the prayer ended, he lifted the dagger and dove it into the tree, just below the face.

A few gasps rang out from the crowd. This was an old ceremony and the presence of a Green Man made it older yet. Few cared as well for the weirwoods, could grow them, and none but they could carve them. But he wasn't carving a face upon the white bark. 

A few more words fell from his lips in a murmur before the dagger slid slowly from the depths of the tree. It came out as easily as it had gone in. A line of red sap followed it; the dagger was coated with it.

"This man, Jon of House Stark, and this woman, Sansa of House Stark," he spoke clearly as he stood, for all that surrounded them to hear, "come before the Old Gods seeking their blessing. They bear the crimson silver mark of the gods. In another life they were bonded, chained together by powers beyond mere mortals. Their hearts were true, and the Old Gods granted their blessing. Today they seek what they were once given, to be granted the blessing of the Gods once again."

His next words were again in the tongue of the First Men as he mixed the sap from one side of the dagger with the blood on her palm and then repeated the movement with Jon. There was a tingling, burning sensation spreading up her arm, sliding through her veins. It wasn't painful, it was just strange. _Did this happen last time? It must have._

The dagger disappeared from his grasp, disappearing into his cloak as he took hold of their wrists. He brought their hands closer together and then with one swift movement her hand was grasping Jon's, palms tight together, blood and sap mixing between them and slipping through their interlocked hands to drip slowly to pain the petals below. A golden ribbon, edged with red embroidery, appeared and the Green Man wrapped it around their hands as he chanted softly. _Another blessing, but not one I recognize._

Moments passed and the ribbon, where it wrapped over the bottom of their clasped hands turned dark with the mixture of their blood and the sap of the Heart Tree. Finally, he finished and unwrapped their hands, forcing them apart and palms down. 

Crimson dripped to the ground, splattering red and white petals alike.

Her heart was beating fast, her body tingled and thrummed with power.

In tandem they flipped their hands over, displaying the bright red blood and sap, smeared on palms and fingers. Red. 

"The Old Gods have given their blessing."

The Green Man stepped away, allowing them to approach the Heart Tree. Kneeling, they bowed their heads and said their thanks, pressing their hands against the Heart Tree, below the face on either side of the seeping cut.

When they pulled back the mixture was gone from their palms, naught but a pink scar remained to mark their flesh and the weirwood had scarred as well, a line of rough, ridged wood marring the once smooth bark where the dragonglass blade had pierced it.

Before they stood, Jon carefully removed her maiden cloak and flipped it over, switching it from the grey wolf upon a white field to its opposite, a white wolf upon a grey field.

"Rise, Jon and Sansa of House Stark, Lord and Lady of Moat Cailin," the Green Man spoke for the last time, "for you are bonded from now until the end of time. Blessed by the Gods."

They stood then, turned to face each other and tangled their fingers together. Jon was the first to move, stepping even closer he dipped his head down but an inch or so to capture her lips in a sweet, tender, gentle kiss. The first of many, she promised herself, that wouldn't be stolen in the dark.

 

 

 

It was sweet, oh so sweet, to be close to Jon again without fear of eyes judging their every moment. They were wed, though not yet bed, and young. It was near expected for them to break some rules of decorum. Not that they were doing anything of the sort. Holding hands, brushing shoulders, and trading quick pecks as they were celebrated. More petals flung into the air after the declaration of their blessing. Their family greeted them and then they retreated, swiftly through the joyous crowd, Lady and Ghost at their heels.

"If only we could disappear for a time," Sansa whispered in his ear, leaning against him in the corridor that led up to the family wing.

He stole a kiss quickly and then pulled back. "We don't have the time."

"I know," she sighed and leaned in to steal another kiss, this one deeper. It had been too long . . . so long. She had missed these moments, had longed for the nights they once spent wrapped in each other's presence be they sitting afore the hearth, she sewing and he cleaning Longclaw, practicing their steps, or curled beneath the furs on their bed. Pulling back, she leaned her forehead against the curve of his neck. "Can we skip the feast?" 

At their feet, Lady whined softly, staring up at them. Ghost sat solemnly next to her, red eyes reflecting the light from a nearby window.

Jon chuckled, his breath teasing her ear. "If only," he murmured.

"I suppose we should get to the recording," Sansa said, pulling back. "We ought not keep them waiting."

"We will be the ones waiting, I'm sure. Even Maester Luwin was amongst our guests, in the godswood near the front."

"True." She took his hand again, tangling their fingers together and pulled him along with, moving towards their father's solar, their wolves running ahead. "Did you know of the Green Man?"

"No. Not until this morning." He shook his head, squeezing her hand gently. "He arrived late last night with Lord Howland Reed and his children."

"Lord Reed is here?" Sansa paused, turning to him. 

"He is," Jon confirmed.

Howland Reed had ventured north of Moat Cailin but once in her memory; when he had brought them proof of Jon's birth. Of all the things to bring him to Winterfell . . . the Crannogman lord hadn't ventured from Greywater Watch for Robb during the war or when Jon had initially been crowned. At the end he had only come when Meera Reed had returned home to seek him out. But for all his faults, the man had clearly cared for Lyanna Stark. The day he appeared at Winterfell's gate they had learned more of Jon's mother than they had heard their entire childhood.

"Perhaps . . ."

"What?" Jon's brow furrowed.

She shrugged and began walking again. The leather sole of her slippers, embroidered with little blue flowers tapped lightly on the ground, softer then the hard tap of Jon's leather boots. "Perhaps we could convince father to foster Bran with House Reed?"

"Perhaps." Sansa could hear the doubt in the word. Bran still dreamed of being a knight, no matter his connection to Summer. With his legs intact, running North wouldn't even be a glimmer of thought. "We can think on it another time."

 

 

 

It took several minutes after they arrived at Lord Stark's solar for anyone else to arrive. A servant had prepared the room, the windows were open, the hearth ablaze, water and wine set upon a table. There was also a small tray of pastries, cheese, and sliced applies should anyone feel a bit peckish while they awaited the start of the feast. The room was organized, dusted, and decorated in a manner Jon had never seen it. A small table, carved long ago from fallen branches of a weirwood tree was set at the center of the room, a thick book splayed out, beautifully decorated pages flipped open to the middle, a page bare but a few designs on the edges.

Lady and Ghost padded in ahead of them, slipping through to settle in front of the hearth.

Still holding hands, they stepped before the weirwood table, staring down. "Our names will go there." There was an edge of awe to his voice. They had all seen this book as children, their father showed it to them upon their seventh name day as they began learning more than just the basics of the religion of the Old Gods and the rituals and traditions House Stark and much of the North still held to.

"They will."

Jon glanced at her, enjoying the feel of her leaning against his side. Using his free hand, he cupped her cheek gently and pulled her in for a gentle kiss. Her left hand settled over his breast, fingers curling gently against the white direwolf embroidered there.

A gentle clearing of the throat had them pulling apart, blushes warming their cheek bones. Jon glanced to the doorway, meeting Lord Stark's gaze.

"Lord Stark," Jon acknowledged, but didn't step away from his wife.

Ned stepped into the room, a small smile breaking the solemnity his features normally embodied. "Daughter," he said, grey eyes on Sansa before they slid over to Jon, "son."

Something relaxed inside Jon, a tension he didn't know was still there. Ned Stark had always been his father, even when he wasn't truly, even when he lied and died without revealing the truth. With the new lie being told and his relationship with Sansa, Jon had felt at times as if he had lost that connection. To hear Ned call him son . . .

"Father," he answered, blinking back moisture. Soon Lady Catelyn, Robb, and Maester Luwin would be here, it would do him no good to be seen crying over such a small thing. His brother would never let him hear the end of it, if he was caught shedding tears on his wedding day.

His father stepped closer and settled a hand on both their shoulders, his smile grew, and he pulled them both towards him, embracing them both gently. "I would welcome you to the family, my son," he said, voice rough, "but you've always been a part of the pack."

Jon didn't answer, just let his eyes close and tightened his grip on his father's shoulder and Sansa's hand. It lasted but a minute, maybe less, before the rough, northern warden pulled back, gently squeezed their shoulders again, and stepped away.

It didn't take long for the others to arrive, Maester Luwin first, the old man's robes of finer quality than his usual fare, but no less rough spun, his clanking chain polished so each different metal was easily discerned from the others. It was his hand that would scrawl their names upon the pages of the book and his hand that would send word to the Citadel of the veracity of their bonding.

Jon shoved the thrum of fear away, doing his best to quell it. _Maester Luwin is loyal. Just as loyal as Sam._ The maesters were stubborn creatures, their nature such that Sam had groused often of them. Hidden away in Old Town, cloistered away in the Citadel, they had remained largely untouched by the wars. Smallfolk and noble alike were looked down upon by those that served the order and not a House. Even maesters serving in southern households were only slightly better. They disdained any facts that didn't come from the mouth of one of their order or from their precious books. They sent those that caused trouble away to serve families most cared not for. The few the North had been saddled with towards the end, however, had gone from skeptics to believers in short order, but even their ravens home had been met with little but denial.

 _Magic, dead men, visions_. All scoffed at as impossible. Never mind the 700 foot Wall of ice in the North, Daenerys' dragons . . . never mind anything that didn't fit in with their narrow, intellectual, worldview. They said it from their sequestered tower, they read it in their mite ridden books, so it must be true. _Did they even believe at the end, when the truth of it stared them in the face and screamed?_

Maester Luwin was different. He was a northern maester, for all that he had spent years in the south. He had come north with Lady Catelyn after the rebellion. Sixteen years was a long time to become accustomed to the culture of his new home. Sixteen years was long enough to become attached to the family he served and the children he helped bring into the world and teach 

Robb arrived as well, shortly thereafter, his mother and Lord Hoster walking arm and arm in front of him. The sight of the Lord of the Riverlands stilled him; he could feel Sansa tense as well. Lord Hoster Tully was Lord Paramount of the Trident and the head of House Tully. By rights as a Lord Paramount and lord of her mother's house, he could request to witness. 

"Grandfather," Sansa said softly, releasing his hand to step towards Hoster, "thank you again for coming."

Jon glanced toward Ned, but not a spec of thought or emotion revealed itself of the man's stoic face.

"I wouldn't miss the first wedding of one of my grandchildren." He took her hand in his and kissed the knuckle. While Hoster didn't say it, all knew that it might be the last unless Robb was wed soon. The Lord of Riverrun's health had been waning of the last couple of years and it was only going to get worse. "And what a beautiful wedding it was."

"Thank you," Sansa said with a smile, blushing prettily as she dropped his hands and stepped back towards Jon.

"Such a spectacle as well." Hoster's eyes moved to Jon, bright and blue Tully eyes. Sansa's eyes. "Perhaps the Old Gods will spare some of their luck for an old man." He turned to his daughter and straightened. "I've not witnessed before, but I am told it doesn't take long?"

"It doesn't," Ned agreed, stepping forward. "Could you close the door please, Robb?"

"Yes, father."

As Robb made to close and secure the door, Ned turned to Jon and Sansa. "Lord Jon," he began, "do you give permission for those present to witness the mark upon your breast and upon that of your lady wife's?"

A quick glance at Sansa, greeted by a small nod and a soft smile of tightly pressed lips, had him nodding. "I do." He swallowed thickly and gently took the maiden cloak from Sansa's shoulders, setting it aside.

Lady Catelyn stepped forward to help Sansa unclasp and untie the hidden loops on the left side of her wedding dress. Sansa had expertly hidden them, the edges blending in with the beginning of the dresses shoulder and sleeves. In turn, Robb stepped forward to aid Jon in untying his own vest. It took a couple of minutes to loosen the fabric and would take just as long to secure it once again when they were done.

Jon noticed the moment Robb saw it, the crimson dragon on black that Sansa had sewn on the inside of his shirt. It was beautiful and intricate and had his brother's eyes widening. Robb had known naught but the lie that had been told. Jon had hated Lord Stark's insistence that the truth be kept secret until this moment, but neither he nor Sansa had seen cause to argue it.

His brother's brow furrowed in confusion as his blue eyes darted up to meet Jon's grey.

Quirking a sad smile, Jon grasped his brother's upper arm gently and nodded slightly. "Thank you, Robb." Clasping the front of his shirt back in place, he turned towards where Sansa held her hand over her smallclothes. His eyes widened a bit at the sight of them. What he could see was dark grey, near black, with ribbons of crimson peeking out.

Robb, pale faced, moved along with his mother, to stand beside Lord Hoster and Ned, Maester Luwin stood on the other side of the table, readying a quill.

Jon met Ned's eyes again, as he took his place next to Sansa, both of them standing tall, both of them shivering slightly.

"Lord Jon, Lady Sansa," Ned's voice was quiet, and rumbled with quiet grief. 

_Mourning the lie?_

"I, Lord Eddard Stark, my wife Lady Catelyn, my heir Robb Stark, and the Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord Hoster Tully stand before you to bear witness for the realms of men that the Old Gods have seen fit to bless you on this day. That your marks have bled gold."

His eyes moved between them.

Jon's fingers tensed in the dark fabric above his breast. "Have they done so?"

Together, in tandem, they both pulled the fabric back far enough to bare the names that the Old Gods imprinted upon their bodies. Both pale, but for a light dusting of embarrassment across their cheeks.

It was Sansa who spoke, her long, pale fingers settled beneath his name, to hide the rest of her breast from view. She held her chin high and her voice held every bit of the depth it had when she spoke as queen.

"They have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the wedding! Yay! I hope you enjoyed it! I took a bit of it from Sansa's second wedding on the TV show and adapted it to my purposes.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I'm unlikely to update this one in November, but I will endeavor to get the next part up before Christmas.

**Author's Note:**

> Number 2 of the 5 Jon Snow soulmate prompts I gave myself for Valentines Day. This one turned time travel as well.
> 
> Updates will be sporadic.
> 
> \---------------  
> This has been cross posted to my FF.net account: Falcon-Rider. It is the only other website this should be on.


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